Elementary, My Dear Potter: Part I
by Rannaro
Summary: Thrust into a world of calm and peace, Snape begins to fall apart – literally – and Harry and Hagrid, with the help of some new neighbors, have to figure out why.
1. Chapter 1 – Prologue 1

This story is a continuation of the story Reflections in the Silver Mist. If you have not read that story, there are major portions of this one that you will not understand. It is thus highly recommended that you read that one first.

**Elementary, My Dear Potter**

**Prologue: There's Never a Dementor Around When You Need One**

_Friday, July 2, 1999 (halfway between full moon and last quarter)_

Auror intern Harry J. Potter rifled through the papers on his desk, trying to look busy in the last few minutes before the end of the work day. His slave-driving supervisor, Mark Savage, had dumped a pile of notices, clippings, memos, and complaints on Harry's desk, none of which was urgent, and Harry was endeavoring to defer the task of sorting and filing them until Monday. It was a hodgepodge jumble of small claims and minor thefts that had been accumulating for four years, ever since the return of the evil wizard who called himself Voldemort.

Now that Voldemort was finally gone (Harry being one of the few in the wizarding world who realized how recent that ultimate departure had been) and, equally important, now that the Ministry of Magic was digging itself out from years of mismanagement, denial, and sloppy record keeping, it fell to the young trainees like Harry to try to retrieve Aunt Agatha's cloisonné pill box or second cousin Buster's collection of cancelled Mallorcan stamps.

Harry himself was more interested in the miniature Scythian gold horse plaque taken from the British Museum in 1995, or the manuscript of certain 'special' pieces from Mozart's _The Magic Flute_ which were only played for wizarding audiences, and which had been on loan in London at the time of its theft in 1997. Savage, however, kept him working on the less notorious crimes, a decision that insured Harry would stay out of the notice of the top levels of the Ministry.

"Hey, Potter!" Cora Withyspindle, from the Duty Solicitor's office, Wizengamot Administration Services, stuck her head through the door into the clerical pool where Harry worked. "Anyone tell you that you had a visitor?"

"No," said Harry, surprised. "Who is it?"

"Hagrid's come down from Hogwarts."

"Merlin!" Harry cried, and rushed out in Withyspindle's wake. Hagrid never liked to come near the Ministry of Magic, and his presence was most likely a sign of trouble.

"There ya are," Hagrid said, rising as Harry walked into the reception room. "I were beginning t' think they'd sent ya out on some important mission."

"Important? Me? No such luck," Harry replied. "Anything wrong at Hogwarts? This isn't exactly where I most expect to see you."

"Wrong at Hogwarts? Nah. Right as rain mostly. No, I come 'bout something else. A certain mutual acquaintance as has experienced a recent change of stature and career, as it were. I wondered if ya'd spoken t' him recent like."

"Me? No." Harry glanced around, but the reception room and the corridor outside were both empty. "I visited him once, about two months ago, right after everything finally settled down. He seemed fine. I haven't heard from him since."

"That there's the problem. Nobody has. I been sending owls – it's got t' near one a day now – but he don't answer. Far 's I can tell, he don't even take the letter off the owl's foot – just sends 'em packing. I was sorta hoping ya could tell me where he was so 's I could pay a call."

Harry felt guilty, but there wasn't much he could do. "I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone the location," he said. "He's got to do that himself. If he hasn't contacted you, it could be because he doesn't want you there." Hagrid's crestfallen look made Harry feel worse. "Maybe he's just been really busy working with the townspeople," he suggested.

"Look, Harry," Hagrid paused and shifted awkwardly, "this ain't something I'm s'posed t' be telling people either, but I worry about him a lot. He has these 'episodes.' Did ya know he… well, he tried t' kill hisself once."

"I know that right after my mum died he told Dumbledore he wished he was dead. I saw that memory."

"Well, he took it a tad farther 'n wishing. He gets 'down.' Really 'down.' If he ain't seeing nobody and he ain't looking at his mail… Well, I get worried."

"I see what you mean," Harry said. "I'm off work now. Let me clear off my desk, and you and I'll go to… Drat! I have to see Ginny first. We were going out to dinner tonight."

"Sorry 'bout that," said Hagrid.

Harry and Ginny had arranged to meet at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley right after he finished work. She recognized the look on his face at once.

"You're standing me up, aren't you?" she said accusingly, looking past him to Hagrid, who stayed out on the street. "Lucky for you it looks like this isn't that solicitor from W.A.S. If it'd been her, I'd have been really angry."

"No, it's Snape," Harry admitted. "Hagrid's just told me that for the past two months he hasn't had any contact with anyone in our world. Hagrid's worried."

"This is silly," Ginny pouted. "You know, he may have just found a lady friend, and you'll be barging into a very private situation."

"I hope it's that simple," Harry said. "But in that case, you'd think he'd at least have said something to someone, even if it was just 'Don't bother me right now.' Hagrid thinks he's depressed."

"Gee," rejoined Ginny, "I get depressed sometimes, too. I wish you paid that much attention to me."

Harry folded her in his arms and kissed her on the forehead. "I don't think that's the kind of depression Hagrid means," he said. "Apparently Professor Snape gets suicidal."

Ginny pulled away from him, drawing a deep breath. "You're joking," she said, and then saw that he wasn't. "Harry, you go with Hagrid, and you go now. I'll wait. You and I, we have all the time in the world." She pushed him towards the door. "You just let me know what I can do. Now go!"

xxxxxxxxxx

One of the changes that had occurred in the aftermath of Voldemort was that Hagrid's case had been reviewed, and he was once again permitted the use of a wand. He had, by this time, become so fond of the wand the house-elves had repaired and encased in a pink umbrella that he continued to use it. Harry apparated to a spot in Lancashire outside the village where Snape had located, but still a bit of a walk to Snape's cottage, and Hagrid followed his apparation trail. Fortunately the area was deserted, as it was generally supper time. There was no one to remark on Hagrid's unusual appearance.

The sun would not set until well past nine-thirty that night, so it was more like late afternoon than evening. Harry pointed out Snape's cottage as the two approached and noted that it seemed unchanged since the last time he'd visited two months earlier. A closer look told him that cottage and garden had not changed at all. What had been cleared in May was still cleared, what had been planted was growing, and what had been weeded had regained a cover of weeds. It was as if no one had worked in the garden at all in the intervening eight weeks.

Hagrid pushed through the gate and rapped on the door. There was no answer; there was no sound, in fact. The place had the air of being deserted. Hagrid circled the building, trying to peer in through the windows. "Professor," he called a few times. "Ya got visitors."

"Give me a boost," Harry said. "I can look into the upper windows from your back."

Standing on Hagrid's sturdy shoulders, it was easy for Harry to check the upper story windows. The room in the front was empty, bare even of furniture. One of two smaller rooms in the back was furnished, and it was there that Harry spied Snape. He was lying fully clothed on a narrow bed. Since he lay on his left side facing the wall, it was impossible for Harry to see his face. He could not tell if the still figure was breathing or not. Snape had, in any case, not responded to their knocks or calls.

Sliding down from Hagrid's back, Harry led the way back to the front door. "I think we have to go in," he said, explaining to Hagrid what he'd seen. "He may be sick."

"Hope he ain't dead," said Hagrid.

Harry took out his wand, but before he could say a charm, Hagrid reached past him and lifted the door latch. It wasn't locked and swung easily and quietly open. "Wow," Harry breathed, "I'd have thought he'd have it sealed."

"Ya never know in these cases," Hagrid commented wisely. He entered first, then turned to Harry. "Since the door weren't locked, we're not breaking 'n entering."

"It's still illegal trespass," Harry pointed out.

"Maybe. We could make a case o' medical emergency, though." He looked around. "This weren't what I expected."

Harry joined him and concurred. The front room was sparsely furnished. A small room behind it was clearly intended for a library but the work seemed to have halted in the middle and piles of books held thin layers of dust. Only the kitchen seemed lived in, with dishes on the table and a pan on the stove.

And nowhere, nowhere, was there the least sign that an individual human being with a unique personality lived there. No photos, no pictures, no ornaments, no rugs… Not one single personal item in all three rooms.

Not one single personal item except… On the mantel in the front room stood the two soulstone coffins, green and purple, that Harry and his friends had spent hours repairing. Harry walked over to them. The purple one was empty, but the green one had numerous memory strands floating in it.

"Ain't no pensieve," Hagrid pointed out.

"That's right, Harry replied. "He's not looking at them. He's hiding them."

The stairs were between the front room and the kitchen. Hagrid went first, with Harry behind. The door to the small back bedroom was open, so Hagrid entered without knocking and said quietly, "Are you all right, Professor?"

Snape rolled over to look at them, his eyes at first dull and listless. Then they lit with a fire that shocked Harry with its intensity. "What are you doing in my house?" he shouted as he rose from the bed in one swift motion, wand already slipping from his sleeve into his hand. "You have no permission to be here! Get out!"

"I ain't going," Hagrid replied calmly. "I come t' see if ya was all right, and I'm glad I did, 'cause obviously ya ain't. Now get off yer high horse and…"

A bolt of red shot across the room to hit Hagrid squarely in the chest. The half-giant didn't budge, but Harry outside the room on the stair landing drew his own wand. Hagrid pushed it down. "I don't need yer help, Harry. There ain't nothing he can really do t' me."

Snape responded to this with a series of stunning spells as Hagrid lumbered towards him. The bedroom was small, though, and it took only a few steps before Snape was cornered, his right wrist firmly in Hagrid's grasp, his wand extracted and handed back to Harry.

"You let go of me, you great clumsy oaf," Snape hissed, struggling against Hagrid's grip. "You monstrous half-breed lump of stupidity! Half a giant means a quarter of a brain no matter how much brawn you have! Give me back my wand!"

"Ya ought t' be more polite to guests, lad. Ain't every day people drop in f'r the pleasure o' yer company. I think it might be nice t' go downstairs and make sure ya get somewhat nourishing into ya." Twisting Snape's arm down behind his back so that the smaller wizard was forced to turn and walk in front of him, Hagrid marched Snape past Harry, down the stairs into the little kitchen, and plopped him into one of the chairs. With his hands on Snape's shoulders to keep him from trying to escape, Hagrid said to Harry, "Will ya check around and see what he's got here f'r food?"

Harry's search was punctuated by Snape's vicious comments about Hagrid, which had started on the stairs and continued now in the kitchen. "You deserved to be kicked out of Hogwarts, you mountainous dung heap! Whatever made you think a mongrel like you could be a wizard! The only magic you ever did worth doing was sweeping up troll droppings! Let me go! I'm not eating anything you make! Filthy garbage! No better than poison! Get your hands off me!"

The only food in the house was some coffee and a partial loaf of bread. "Ya'll have t' go into the village t' buy somewhat, Harry," Hagrid said apologetically. "He's lost weight, and there weren't a lot of him t' begin with. Get stuff as is easy f'r a picky stomach. When he's like this…"

"Stop talking about me like I was your pet ferret! You're a vile, ugly, bullying tyrant, and the day you finally leave Hogwarts, everyone will breathe a sigh of relief. You know why they have you stuck out there away from everyone else, don't you? It's because nobody can bear to be near you. Let go of me and get…"

A wave of Hagrid's pink umbrella, and Snape was both silenced and bound. "C'mon Harry," Hagrid said. "I'll walk ya t' the gate."

As they left the cottage and made their way to the road, Harry felt his anger rising. "You can't let him talk to you like that, Hagrid. You're trying to help him, and he treats you like owl dung…"

"Don't ya worry none, lad. It don't bother me. 'Sides, he ain't talking about me. He's talking about hisself. Didn't ya recognize the ugly, bullying tyrant nobody can bear t' be near? We both know, him and me, that that ain't me. And Harry, could ya bring back a pensieve? I'd like t' look at them memories he's putting in that jar."

"They must be pretty unpleasant ones."

"I hope so. But that ain't what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid they're the good ones. I'm afraid he thinks an ugly unloved git like him needs t' be punished.

"I don't understand."

"Ain't that what dementors do? They take all the good 'n leave ya with only bad t' think about. Azkaban ain't got no more dementors, but that don't mean ya can forego the punishment."

"Why would he think he needed to be punished?"

"I'm hoping he'll tell me."

Harry went to the village. It was just a few minutes walk and, as he was certain it must have a market, or at least a small grocery, and as he wanted to get there before closing time – whenever that might be – he tried there first. Food was, after all, the most important thing. The pensieve could wait.

On later reflection, naturally, he realized he could have apparated to Selfridge's for a wider variety of food, gone to his rooms for a pensieve, and have returned to the cottage faster than it took him to walk to the village and back, but that is what hindsight is for. At the moment when it mattered, his first thought was for the village.

Now Harry had been raised in the greater London area, where every home had a garage and a car to go in it, and shopping tended to be done by the week rather than the day in large markets where the clerks never learned your name. He was therefore unaware that in small rural villages seldom visited by travelers – where the occupants of every cottage in a five-mile radius were members of a tight community – the sudden appearance in the evening of a total stranger, and a young one to boot, coming in from the north without a car when everyone knew that neither the Dodsons nor the Roaches were expecting visitors, was bound to excite comment.

In this particular community, knowing as they did who lived in the third cottage to the north, the comment went immediately to the duty constable. It might have been Tom Ridley, or it might have been Nick Cranmer. As it happened, that evening Hugh Latimer was on duty.

Harry was in the local grocery negotiating his way between the conflicting needs of Hagrid and Harry's own pocketbook. While as an auror he always carried a small sum of muggle money, it wasn't much. He was thus debating, under the keen eye of the owner, the relative importance of eggs, butter, bread, milk, chicken, tea, peas, and salad mixings when a calm voice behind him said, "Here now, I know you. You were with your friend looking at the old Prince place back in the spring. What brings you here again?"

Turning, Harry found himself facing a young man in his early to mid twenties with soft gray eyes and equally soft brown hair hidden for the most part under a domed and badged brimmed helmet. The image of authority was lightened by the summer uniform, for the constable was in shirt sleeves and waistcoat rather than a jacket and, being in the countryside, wore only a small billy club as a weapon.

"Oh," Harry said rather stupidly. "Yes. I remember you."

"I presume you're buying for the cottage. Did Mr. Snape tell you he had credit here? Bill, this is a friend of Rick Snape's at the Prince place. I'd be willing to guarantee his credit's good if he needs something."

"The Prince place, eh?" said Bill. "That's good enough for me. Nice to see he's got visitors. Was there anything else you needed, sir?"

"No, thank you. This is fine." Harry counted out the coins he had and let the balance go on account. As he started to pick up his bags and leave the shop, he realized he was going to have company.

"Let me help you, sir," said the young constable, taking one of the two bags. "I need to be checking out that way anyway. It'll give me someone to talk to."

There was nothing Harry could do. He was perfectly aware that 'checking out that way' was a ruse to get him to accept the constable's presence. He was equally aware that the young policeman knew he was a wizard. Still… the man might know something useful about Snape. "Thanks," Harry said. "I'm grateful for the help."

There was no conversation for the first five minutes, then the constable began it. "By the way, my name is Latimer – Hugh Latimer. I share the duty for this area with two others. If you need something, let us know. We like to be sure the outlying cottages are taken care of." He paused for a moment. "Had you heard your friend wasn't well?"

It was a loaded question. "We've been concerned," Harry admitted. "We're not sure yet there's a problem."

"It's no secret," said Constable Latimer. "Day to day he keeps to himself. A lot to himself, in fact. If he's needed, though, he comes out. Fred Allsop… his horse came with the colic and the vet in Colne said it had to be put down. Surgery was expensive, immediate, and likely wouldn't succeed. Fred wouldn't listen and went out to Mrs. Prince's house. Mr. Snape came at once and spent the night crooning over the horse. Whatever it was he did, it worked. That horse is fine today."

"So he's working," Harry said.

"He is when he is." Latimer paused. "The trouble is, he's really lonesome. When there's work, he works. He comes out only to work. The local people are afraid… Well, how can the local witch help if the local witch needs help? We're worried, but we're not his people. Is there anything you can do?"

It was a situation that Harry was not expecting to have to deal with. That the local population should be vaguely aware that Snape was a 'witch' was one thing. For them to understand that there was a whole wizarding population was something else entirely. It wasn't as if this place was like Godric's Hollow or Ottery St, Catchpole either, where a muggle community and a wizarding community mingled, mildly aware of each other at all times. No, here only Snape, who had moved in two months ago, was the local witch. It was spooky, and Harry wondered what Snape's grandmother had been like, and what had happened to her.

Hagrid came rushing out of the cottage as soon as he saw Harry and Constable Latimer. "There ya are! Ya took a bit longer 'n I thought ya would. Thanks f'r getting him home in one piece, eh, sir. Well, now that's done, he's got his chores t' do and I 'xpect you got yer duties…"

Harry cringed inside, unable to stop him, but the constable took it in stride. "You're very welcome, sir. Glad to have been of service. If you don't mind, though, I'd be grateful if I could pay my respects to Mr. Snape before I go."

"Snape?" Hagrid exclaimed. "Why, I don't believe I…"

"The owner of the house," said Latimer. "Mr. Richard Snape."

"He… I… well ya see… We've let the place for the month, Harry and me, and…"

Hagrid was thoroughly flustered and looked to Harry for help. Harry merely shook his head, then turned to Latimer. "We're having a little trouble convincing him he needs help. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him."

As they walked through the front door, Hagrid muttered a quick spell. From the kitchen Hagrid's erstwhile prisoner made his newly liberated frustration instantly known.

"You gargantuan pile of giant guts! I'm going to hex you into the next millennium! Truss me up like a chicken, will you? You're going to eat sea slugs! Where's my wand?" Snape appeared suddenly in the kitchen doorway, his face twisted with fury, but paused when he saw the policeman. "Excellent!" He waved a finger at Hagrid and Harry. "Arrest these two villains!"

Latimer immediately pulled a small notebook and a pencil from his waistcoat pocket. "Yes, sir," he said. "What charges are you filing against them?"

"Am I filing? Are you blind? They're trespassing, and they were holding me captive!"

"Excuse me, sir, but I've seen this young gentlemen," Latimer indicted Harry, "before. You and he were both together on this property last April and you seemed to be friendly. Do you wish to file charges that he is on your property today against your will?"

"Yes, you nincompoop! I do!"

"Very good, sir, though I must inform you that insulting a police officer is an offense, and that you are advised against it." As Snape spluttered, Latimer turned to Harry. "Your name, sir."

"Harry James Potter."

"Residence?"

Harry gave his address in Avery Row, London. The constable then turned to Hagrid with the same questions.

"Rubeus Hagrid, 'n I live… well, I live at Hogwarts… at a private school."

"And where is that school – Hogwarts, you say – located?"

"Scotland," Harry said quickly. "I can get you the exact location."

"Thank you, sir. Now, Mr. Snape, you say they were holding you against your will. Where was that, sir?"

"Here. In this kitchen."

"But sir, you were not restrained when I came in, and I was talking to these gentlemen by the gate for a few minutes. Why didn't you attempt to leave then?"

"Because," Snape yelled in exasperation, "he didn't release me until you were coming into the house! He didn't want you to see me bound!"

"Sir, he was with me. I did not see him go into the kitchen to release you. How, exactly, were you bound? With ropes?"

"No, imbecile! With magic!"

Latimer closed his notebook. "Sir, you're asking me to file official charges against these two men, charges that will be reviewed by the county authorities, and you're claiming that they used magic against you. Do you really want to do that?"

Snape opened his mouth to snap something at the bland-faced young constable, glowered for a moment, then spun in the doorway and stomped back to the kitchen table where he stood with his back to them. Latimer followed him into the kitchen with Harry and Hagrid right behind. The presence of Hagrid made the room quite crowded.

"We brought the food," Harry said, setting the bags on the table.

"Sir," Latimer pressed, "Do you wish to continue your claim against these gentlemen?" When Snape didn't respond, Latimer asked, "Would you like me to escort them off your property?"

"Yes!" Snape barked over his shoulder. "That at least would be something useful!"

"Very good, sir." Latimer said. He gestured to Harry and Hagrid to leave.

"I'll go," Hagrid said, "but I ain't going far. "There's a rock down the road a ways 'n I'll sit there so 's ya can stick yer head out the door 'n call if ya need me. Now you eat somewhat o' that food. Y're looking too peaked by half. 'N be sure to drink the milk. Them rickets, ya know…" This last was said from the front door as Latimer held it to usher him out.

Snape had come to the kitchen door to watch them leave. His features no longer distorted with anger, he looked very young – almost as young as the boy Harry had seen in the pensieve memory in Snape's office during occlumency lessons. The boy who'd been attacked without warning from behind… _No wonder all Hagrid's maternal instincts are coming out. It's like turning the clock back twenty years._

There was a small table a couple of feet away from Harry. Reaching into his jacket, Harry pulled out Snape's wand that he'd been carrying ever since Hagrid handed it to him. Placing it carefully on the table, he said, "We only came because we were worried about you. Maybe if you had an owl so if you needed something…"

Snape didn't respond, and Harry went out after Hagrid, Constable Latimer in the rear to close the door. Together they walked toward the gate.

"Now you can't stay around bothering him if he doesn't want you here," Latimer warned. "I understand you think you have his interests at heart, but he has the right to make that decision without harassment."

"Yes, sir," said Harry. "I'm going back to London now anyway. Hagrid will stay away from the gate and…"

Behind them the front door of the cottage opened again and Snape stuck his head out. "You don't expect me to eat all this food do you?" he yelled at them.

"That wasn't the original idea, no," Harry replied. "We were planning to join you."

"Well you'd better get back here then, because I don't want to have to throw it all out!"

"Am I to understand, sir, that you no longer wished these gentlemen removed?" Latimer seemed quite unruffled by the sudden turn-around. "If that's the case and you no longer need me, I'll be going back to the village."

"You get along, then," said Snape. "I'll be all right as long as Hagrid doesn't do the cooking. If I need you again I'll… Wait. How do I get hold of you if these two hooligans jump me again? I want you to string a telephone line…"

"Have you thought about one of those mobile phones, sir? They operate in most places now."

"Good idea. I'll think about it."

"Then I'll be going now if everything is in order." The constable went out the gate and down the road, glancing back only once to see that Harry and Hagrid were returning to cottage. Snape was no longer visible, having gone back inside but leaving the door ajar for them. Latimer smiled slightly, shook his head, and went home to his own supper.

Back in the kitchen, Snape was complaining. "What kind of shopping is this? No onions. No cheese. No mushrooms. How am I supposed to make a decent omelet with this junk? Honestly, Potter, do you need your hand held for everything? No wonder you were always such a miserable potions brewer. You can't cook either."

"Don't ya got some o' that out in that garden o' yers?" Hagrid said. "It's pretty wild, but if a witch has ever had a vegetable garden, it usually keeps itself going f'r a while. Where'd yer gram grow her onions?"

Snape stared at Hagrid for a moment, then darted out into the long summer evening. He was back ten minutes later with not only a couple of onions but sage, rosemary, and lovage. With the problem of making supper to solve, most of his bad spirits seemed to have vanished, at least temporarily.

Watching Snape cook was fascinating for Harry, since the only other magical person he'd ever seen prepare food in a kitchen was Molly Weasley. The two were diametrically opposite. Where Mrs. Weasley set the gadgetry of her kitchen into a whirl of peeling, chopping, stirring, and sautéing, Snape approached every facet of the task with the same meticulous care he used brewing a potion.

"Do you ever use a wand?" Harry asked as Snape lit his ancient wood-burning stove with a match and kindling.

"Potter, you never touch food with a wand. Haven't you learned anything!"

"Hey, I know you can't make food with a wand, but what about cutting it up and stuff like that? That part's just mechanical."

"I suppose you could make do with a wand if you were working under time constraints – like having to feed an army. Have you ever eaten army food, Potter."

"Have you?"

"Don't get cheeky!"

Harry decided not to answer back. It was, after all, true that Molly Weasley was feeding an army of males, most of them ravenous teenage boys. He changed the subject, switching his attention to Hagrid. "How does it feel to be able to use a wand again?" He was leaning forward, elbows on the table, one arm flat, the other up, his chin propped in his cupped hand. "Legally, I mean."

"Truth told, not much different 'n it felt using it illegal," Hagrid replied. "Most folks as knew me knew I had it, but none of 'em ever said nothing. Guess that's what friends are for."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Friends are great with keeping your secrets. I don't think I could've made it without Ron and Hermione."

"I take it," Snape commented sarcastically from the other side of the room, "that the two of you are comparing notes on successful rule-breaking."

"Come off it," Harry said good-naturedly. "It's not like you never broke any rules yourself."

"And who told you that?"

"You and my dad used to hex each other all the time."

Snape turned to face him, leaning back against the kitchen counter, a French chef's knife held loosely in his right hand. "Your father and his cronies used to attack me. I used to defend myself. I committed two heinous crimes that justified my being punished. The first was that I arrived at Hogwarts with a friend who was sorted into Gryffindor while I was sorted into Slytherin, and despite this I still had the unforgivable temerity to continue talking to her. The second was that a highly placed Slytherin pureblood, and later her young cousin, was trying to recruit me into the Dark Lord's ranks because I was good at spells and potions. Both these things made me in your father's eyes a legitimate target for a wide range of attacks, and I retal…"

"That's not true!" Harry was on his feet, his face flushed and his hand going for his wand. "I've sympathized with you these past six months because you were going through a lot and I realize there's a lot I didn't know, but my father opposed you because he opposed everyone who supported dark magic! He was fighting for…"

Harry stopped because Snape had started to laugh. It wasn't loud, boisterous laughter, or a snide, sneering chuckle. It was that soft, uncontrollable laughter that at moments is nearly indistinguishable from crying. Snape turned his back, his shoulders shaking as he tried to master his reactions. "Let me guess," he said after a moment, clearing his throat and taking a deep breath. "I'll bet I can name the person who told you that."

"You're going to say it was Sirius because you always hated Sirius!" Harry cried. "But it wasn't just Sirius! Remus Lupin said the same thing!"

Snape faced the table again, his features now closed and tightly locked, cold and deadly. "Let me tell you a story, Hagrid. It happened at the end of the school year in 1994 – you remember the year we had dementors on the grounds? I was looking for Remus Lupin because he forgot to take his wolfsbane potion, and I happened to pick up an invisibility cloak under the Whomping Willow. With it I managed to overhear part of a conversation in the Shrieking Shack. Do you know, Hagrid, what Remus Lupin told Potter here? He told him that I hated his father because I was jealous… of James's Quidditch ability."

In the silence that followed, Harry felt his own face reddening with anger and shame. A glance told him that Hagrid was looking away, his face a mixture of embarrassment and mirth. Snape merely waited, his arms folded across his chest, a glint of malicious triumph in his eyes.

"Hagrid?" Harry turned to his friend for reassurance.

"Sorry, Harry. As a boy, the lad never did like Quidditch, and when yer mum got him t' go to a match, he cheered f'r the bludgers. It weren't til he were head o' house that he started to appreciate the game, 'n then it were because that were part o' his job." Hagrid shrugged. "Jealous because o' the Quidditch? It just don't make sense."

"Want to hear another?" Snape asked. Harry said, 'No,' but Snape didn't listen; he was talking to Hagrid. "Dumbledore told him that I felt indebted to James for saving my life. I was willing to protect the son in order to fulfill my sense of obligation to the father."

"He didn't!" Hagrid gasped.

"He did," said Harry, suddenly remembering that moment in Dumbledore's office. Remembering also that almost immediately before voicing the falsehood, Dumbledore had assured him, 'I shall not, of course, lie.' But he had lied. And Sirius had lied, and Remus had lied. And Hagrid? Harry thought of all the times when Hagrid had seemed guilty and hesitant, the times when Harry had been sure the half-giant was hiding something from him. "Is there anyone at Hogwarts," he shouted, "who never lied to me?"

"Probably not," Snape said, and returned to sautéing onions and lovage for a bread and sage stuffing for the chicken. The cubed bread had been drying in the oven, and now he took it out and mixed it with the other ingredients and began filling the chicken. "Supper will be rather late, but none of us has to get up early tomorrow, right?"

"Professor," Harry insisted, "did you ever lie to me?"

Snape slipped the stuffed chicken into the oven. "Probably," he said. "I don't recall particulars at the moment except I led you to believe the Dark Lord would really kill you – though as I believed that to be true myself, I don't think it counts as lying." He scrounged at the back of a cupboard and brought out a half bottle of olive oil, salt, and some pepper, and began making a salad dressing. "I did not lie to you about your father, and as you never asked me about your mother, I never had to lie about her."

Harry didn't respond, but instead moved slightly to one side to watch Snape's profile as he finished the salad dressing, then chopped and sliced the things Harry'd bought and the things he'd pulled from the garden for the salad. This was the face Harry's mother had known in her last year at school, after they'd stopped talking in fifth year…

"Professor," he asked. "Do you have the doors back?"

Snape glanced over, incredulous. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"You said before, when you were in the flask, that the doors were gone. You couldn't control what you looked at because the doors were gone. Now you're back in a body. Did you get the doors back?"

Peas now podded and waiting to be blanched, Snape carefully tossed and dressed the salad, serving it as a first course. "We haven't anything but tea to drink," he apologized, "since Potter neglected to buy anything." Nonetheless, they set to with hearty appetites, even Snape, for both socializing and cooking are good therapy for the depressed. Only after the meal had started did he address Harry's question.

"Doors… It's hard to tell. This body is strange. It's as if I'm not really connected with it. I do have fairly normal access to my memories, and I can lock some of them away. It's different from what it was… from what it used to be. I don't have quite as much control."

Hagrid nodded. "Best not t' push too much. Ya never know what can break. Don't want t' be creating more work f'r ourselves, now do we?"

Salad finished, there was an awkward moment. Harry excused himself and went out of the kitchen to the front door of the cottage. There was so much he wanted to talk about, but tonight he didn't dare. Back in January, when he'd first discovered that Snape's memories had survived from that terrible night at Hogwarts, his hopes of finally learning something about his parents had soared, only to be pushed aside in the hunt for what remained of Voldemort. Harry'd grown to like the tiny pensieve Snape, but this new one was more like the old one – more bitter, more defensive… And yet, theoretically, they were the same person, weren't they?

Harry looked around him. The garden still needed huge amounts of labor to be a real garden again. The house… "Are you going to furnish this place?" he called back to Snape.

"It is furnished," Snape replied from the kitchen. "Table and chairs in the kitchen, a table by the front door, a sofa, a chair, and a table in the front room, and a bed in the bedroom. What else do you need?"

"Lots," said Harry to himself, trying to remember if the few pieces here were ones he'd seen in the pensieve memory of Snape's childhood home. He rather thought they were. He decided to drop the subject for the moment and went back into the kitchen where supper was now ready.

xxxxxxxxxx

In the village which, by the way, went by the charming name of Weetsmoor, Constable Hugh Latimer and his wife were just rising from their own supper. "That was delicious, Gill," Hugh sighed contentedly, patting his stomach.

"It'd have been better if I hadn't had to keep it warm for you." Gillian Latimer told him, clearing the dishes into the kitchen sink. "I get a chance to fix a nice loin of pork with prices going down like they've been doing, and you rush off to accuse some poor innocent traveler of shoplifting."

"I didn't accuse him of shoplifting. He's staying at the Prince cottage, and it gave me a chance to check out how things are going there without being too obvious."

"The 'Prince cottage.' Oh, Hugh, is that poor young man going to have to live the rest of his life in a home named for a crazy old lady who burnt herself up in a grease fire?" Gillian cut slices of peach pie for the two of them while Hugh poured coffee.

"Glasgow must be a fast-paced town, Miss Ross," replied Hugh, "to change the names of things so quickly. There are older people here who think I'm getting ahead of myself by calling it the Prince cottage. For them it's still the Rossendale place. And I don't think Mr. Snape minds. From what I hear, he must be kin to her. Bill Morley says he's the image of her grandson who used to visit in the summers more than twenty years ago. To judge from Fred Allsop's mare, he certainly has the family talent." He shoveled a piece of pie into his mouth and smiled.

Gill scowled. "You know it upsets me when you talk like that. Silly superstitions."

Hugh was toying with another bite of pie. He wasn't supposed to discuss police business with his wife.

"And I still say you shouldn't burden him with the past of that crazy old…"

"Mrs. Prince didn't start that fire, Gill. It was arson."

Gillian Latimer stared at her husband. "Arson? Out in the quiet countryside like this? No, Hugh, I can't believe that."

"It's in the police files. There are people in this town who went to prison because of it. Sam Logan spent ten years in jail."

"Sam! That sweet man! Why?"

"She was a witch. I was just a tot when it happened, but I remember growing up with the whispers about that night. They went to her for years for little potions and poultices, and for serious problems, too, and then one day the whole village got caught up in some kind of madness and they went out and burned the place down with her in it."

"Oh, God! Hugh, that's horrible!"

"That's what everyone thought. No one could explain it. They even sent experts in to test the water for hallucinogenic chemicals. The ones who went to prison practically begged to be punished. People moved away… When that young man bought the place – with his face… and saving Allsop's mare – well there's a lot of older people who are hoping this means the village has been forgiven. That's why I wanted to go out and check on him. He stays by himself too much. They're worried."

"They should be worried. A young man like him all by himself out there in that house everyone says is haunted. But that doesn't change the fact that there are no such things as witches." Gillian had eaten none of her pie and was clearly not hungry anymore.

"Nick Cranmer has the duty tomorrow. Come out walking with me tomorrow morning and look at the place. Especially if his friends are staying. You have to see the big fellow." Hugh grinned, and Gillian agreed.

xxxxxxxxxx

The rest of dinner at Snape's home had passed without event. Harry was apparating back to London; Hagrid was spending the night. Snape didn't like the idea and threatened Hagrid with bat bogies if he damaged the upper floor, which he said was not rated for Hagrid's weight. There was a lively dispute as to exactly what Hagrid's weight was, so that Harry did not leave until two in the morning, while Snape and Hagrid did not retire until three.

He had admitted it to neither of the other two, but Snape had for several weeks been suffering from a peculiar type of insomnia where he would fall asleep, sleep for about three hours, and then wake up and be unable to get back to sleep. That morning he awoke at six. Hagrid was snoring thunderously, so Snape went downstairs to fix coffee.

The coffee was ready, morning light was pouring into the front room, and Snape went there to sit for a moment. He had just set the coffee down on the table by the sofa when a stabbing pain shot through his head. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, lost consciousness, and fell forward.

Upstairs, Hagrid continued snoring. Downstairs, Snape lay very still as a small pool of mist gathered around his head. Outside, birds sang territorial threats at each other in a symphony of twitters, peeps, and warbles. No other sound was heard for another two and a half hours.

Hugh and Gillian Latimer strolled up to the gate around nine o'clock. "Mr. Snape?" Hugh called, then lifted the latch on the gate when there was no answer.

"Isn't this trespassing?" Gill teased him.

"I'm following up on an altercation that took place last evening. I'd be remiss in my duty if I didn't make sure that Mr. Snape was all right," Hugh informed her smugly. "Mr. Snape? Richard Snape?"

The front garden had been cleared two months earlier, so the new-grown weeds weren't as thick there as in the back. Hugh approached the front door then, on a whim, glanced into the front window. What he saw alarmed him. "Mr. Snape!" He strode to the door which, thankfully, was not locked, and raced into the front room, cursing himself for having assumed all was well when he'd left the evening before. He knelt by the still, black-clad form. "Mr. Snape!" Behind him Gillian cried, "Oh, Hugh! What happened?"

Quickly, Hugh checked pulse and breathing. Both seemed fine, and the unconscious man might have been sleeping had it not been that Hugh couldn't wake him. He was puzzled by the misty vapor on the floor and started to brush it away, then thought better of it. Pulling out his mobile phone, he dialed the emergency number. The phone didn't work.

"We're in a dead zone," Hugh told Gillian. "I need to find a place where I can get the signal." Outside there was a slightly plosive popping sound that Hugh barely registered as he pulled open the front door. On the doorstep, he ran smack into Harry Potter, who was carrying a briefcase.

"Constable?" Potter exclaimed in obvious surprise. "Is there a problem?"

"Your friend," Hugh cried. "Something's knocked him out!"

Potter rushed past Hugh into the front room, skidding to a halt at the sight of Snape stretched out on the floor. Hugh expected him to kneel by his friend, but Potter did no such thing. Instead he took from his pocket a stick about eleven inches long, and from the briefcase a heavy bowl, like a shallow basin. Gillian was also in the room, yet Hugh had eyes for no one but Potter.

Pointing the stick at the area around Snape's head, Potter cried, _"Accio Snape!"_ The mist coalesced and gathered into his outstretched hand, from which Potter poured the vapor into the basin. There was a moment when the basin was filled with swirling gray tendrils, and then a shape formed on its surface – a shape that looked remarkably like a five-inch-tall Richard Snape.

"There you are, Potter! It's about time you showed up! How long were you going to leave me there, anyway?" The tiny figure folded its arms across its chest and glared at Potter in righteous indignation. "It would have served you right if I had evaporated! What is that horrible boo-hooing?""

The horrible boo-hooing was Gillian, who had the knuckles of both hands thrust into her mouth and was staring at the miniscule Snape wide eyed. Hugh crossed over to her and took her into his arms, gently hushing her. He was sorry, truly sorry, that she was so upset, but the thrill of watching actual witchcraft taking place in front of him took precedence even over her shock. He had, after all, warned her.

"What happened to you?" Potter demanded. "Honestly, I can't leave you alone for twelve hours without you going all to pieces!" He now stooped to examine the still body. "He'll be fine," he said as he rose.

"Of course it'll be fine," Snape spat back at him. "It was fine before, wasn't it? It's me that was in danger. Do you have any idea how hard I had to work to maintain elemental integrity? I could have dissolved! Dispersed! Diffused! Disintegrated! Decomposed!"

"And that's just the D's," said Potter sarcastically. "You sound like a thesaurus. Where's Hagrid?"

"The big oaf is still asleep. Can't you hear him?"

"You stay here," Potter ordered, heading for the stairs. "I'm going to get him."

"Right," Snape complained to the ceiling. "Like I'm going somewhere. Idiot pensieve anyway." He glanced around and focused on the Latimers. "What are you doing here? This isn't a public carnival, you know."

Hugh had no opportunity to reply, for at that moment Hagrid roared above them, "He did what! That blame-fool poor excuse for a wizard! I'm gonna sit on him!"

As the sound of Hagrid trying to be gentle to Snape's staircase reached them, Hugh managed to maneuver Gillian onto the chair and stood by her with a hand on her shoulder. It was fortunate he had since, while she was prepared for a 'big fellow,' she was not prepared for Hagrid, who had to duck and squeeze himself through every doorway. Hagrid was carrying a pillow and a blanket from upstairs. Potter went into the kitchen for two more chairs.

"Morning, Constable," Hagrid said politely to Hugh, and "Morning, ma'am," to Gillian. Then he turned his attention not to the miniature Snape in the basin, but to the prone form of 'Richard' lying on the floor. Like Hugh, Hagrid first checked pulse and breathing, then went further to examine him for breaks or bruises. Satisfied, he lifted the body and laid it carefully on the sofa, the pillow under its head and the blanket covering it. "He's gotta stop doing this," Hagrid commented to the room in general. "Someday it's gonna happen on a staircase, 'n then we'll have real trouble. 'N you," he was now addressing the pensieve. "D' ya remember what happened?"

"Remember? Me? It looks as if you have a memory problem, too, Godzilla. How can I 'remember' when it's all locked up in that thing?" Snape gestured with an irritated wave of his hand at the sofa, then noticed Potter. "How come I'm the only one here who doesn't get a chair?"

"It's the nature of the thing," said Potter, sitting down. "All right, you can't remember, but do you know what happened?"

"What's that muggle doing here?" Snape pointed at Hugh, who was holding Gillian's hand. "And the woman. They shouldn't be here!"

"As I understand," Potter told him, "the constable here came by to see if you were all right. He was concerned about you."

"It's about time somebody was. Now put me back, and then you can all leave."

"Not until we find out why it happened. The only other time I know of, it was because I removed you together with a memory. This time seems to have been spontaneous. Could you have gotten back in without help?" Potter leaned back in his chair, crossing his left ankle onto his knee. "You may need us more than you realize."

"You blithering nincompoop! I never had a problem at all until you two starting bothering me, coming over and disturbing my peaceful existence! I finally have a nice place for a home, a garden to work in, and you have to descend on me like a horde of Huns…"

"Excuse me," said Gillian suddenly, rising from her chair, "but would anyone mind if I went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea?"

"What is that muggle doing here!" Snape screamed.

"Not at all," Potter said. "We apologize that things seem a bit inhospitable, but he's been through a bad period. He'll get over it." Then, as Hugh and Gillian edged past Hagrid to the kitchen, Potter added, "Better make coffee, too. He prefers it in the morning." He reached for the cold cup on the table by the sofa and handed it to her. "Thanks."

Once in the kitchen, Gillian ignored Hugh and began opening cupboards. "I don't think you should do that," Hugh said, not really trying to stop her. "Isn't that tea and coffee right out on the table?"

"Shh!" Gillian warned him. "Not that they're paying much attention. Look at this, Hugh. That little… he must be a hologram…"

"He's a witch," said Hugh. "They're all witches."

"That's not the point!" Gillian's voice came out more like a hiss than a whisper. "The point is, he just said he had a nice home and a garden to work in, but he hasn't been working in that garden for over a month. He hasn't been working in the house either. The furniture in that room was thrown in near the door and never moved. I got a glimpse into the side room, and there's a pile of books in the middle of the floor. And look at this kitchen. A few dishes, a couple of pots… There's nothing here, Hugh. If he's really enjoying this cottage, it doesn't show."

The embers in the stove were still warm from when Snape had fixed coffee earlier that morning, so Gillian stoked them and laid on more wood so that she could heat water for tea and coffee. Hugh watched her, admiring how she stepped into the strange surroundings as if born to them. It was lucky, of course, that the kitchen didn't need magic. He doubted she could have coped with that. "What do you think we should do?" he asked.

"Do witches have psychiatrists? That boy needs a psychiatrist. I wonder where his parents are. He should be with his family. Not here all by himself."

"At least he has friends…"

"Some friends! Bullying him like that! They may be part of the problem."

"I don't know, Gill. You weren't here yesterday. The relationship seemed… different."

Gillian humphed and continued making the tea.

From the front room came the sound of more bickering. Hugh and Gillian listened unashamedly. Hugh, of course, had to be alert for the sounds of potential violence, it being part of his job.

"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be alive right now!" said Potter, a note of irritation now creeping into his voice.

"And that's somehow supposed to make me feel indebted to you? Were you listening to me last night? Let's try it in words of one syllable. The old man lied to you. There is no such thing as a life debt. I did not owe one to your father, you do not owe one to me, and I do not owe one to you. Got it?"

"Father's two syllables," Hagrid pointed out. "Don't you want to be alive?"

"Now that you mention it… No. I should have committed real suicide when I had the chance." At this statement, Gillian looked meaningfully at Hugh.

"Well if you felt that strongly about it, why didn't you?" This was Potter again.

"I was once again watching out for your best interests, so you owe me one."

"Right. Robards and I got reprimanded it for it anyway, so your delicacy was slightly misplaced. Besides, you just said there are no such things as debts."

"Life debts. Merlin, don't you ever stop being cheeky to your elders? This is a stay-out-of-St.-Mungo's debt. I wasn't worried about your standing with the Ministry. I was worried about your conscience. You helped plan it. If I'd really killed myself using your plan, you'd have felt guilty for the rest of your life."

"No I wouldn't have! You're a big boy. You have the right to make your own choices."

"Did it ever occur to you that all your meddling with my psyche may have damaged my ability to choose?"

"No!"

"Well it would have occurred to you if I'd died. You'd have been all over yourself with guilt, Mr. I-Have-to-Die-For-the-World."

"Now you're just being mean!"

"Surprise. Like you never expected it of me."

"You weren't this mean in January."

"In January I was five inches tall and dependent on you for coffee." ("Y're still five inches tall," Hagrid muttered, but Snape appeared to ignore him.) "So I took out my little tambourine, danced my little dance on the levee, and said, 'Yessuh, Massa Harry, I'se a happy slave.' Now I can make my own coffee and you can leave this house, walk back out that gate and go home!"

Harry let the silence stretch out, then said, "That constable from town says you never socialize with anyone."

Snape paused, and Hugh wished he could see what was happening. "Bunch of countrified muggles," he said at last.

"I thought you weren't blood proud," said Hagrid.

"I got sorted into Slytherin, didn't I?"

"What about my mom?" Potter asked.

"I'd have been happier if I'd never met her. No. Edit that. I'd have been less miserable if I'd never met her."

"I thought you loved her."

"There may have been a time when I thought I did. Self-deception… Such a dependable human trait."

Quite suddenly the teakettle began to sing, and Gillian hurried to fix the tea. There was silence in the front room except for Hagrid saying, "Ya don't think they heard us, do ya?" Then Gillian had the pot warmed, the tea in it, and boiling water for the steeping. She carried the teapot and the coffee pot into the front room, Hugh behind her with five cups and saucers.

"At least," said Snape, counting the crockery, "they got that part right."

There was an awkward silence as Gillian set out the things on the table, and then Snape cleared his throat a little. "Dear lady, I fear you have not caught me at my best. My name is Richard Severus Snape, and I should like to welcome you to my home, humble as it is, and thank you for being so gracious as to prepare something for us. I regret that I am not, as you can see, in a position to show you around. The gentleman on your right is Rubeus Hagrid, and the young rascal sitting by the door…" – both men rose as they were introduced, both blushing slightly – "is Harry James Potter. They are, I am forced to confess, acquaintances of mine. I have already met our stalwart young constable. Latimer, would you mind…?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Gillian."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Latimer," said Snape as Potter and Hagrid murmured a greeting. "Potter, would you do the honors?"

Potter began asking 'tea or coffee,' pouring, and handing round the cups. When he got to Snape, he said, "Coffee, I presume," and poured a cup. "How are we supposed to do this?"

"That is a bit tricky," Snape admitted. "I don't suppose you could snag one out of him… No?"

"You've got some in the flask."

Snape was on a short fuse. "You sneak! You've been poking about in my things! I ought to trounce you! If I had my wand…!"

"You haven't got a wand? You did before. And I just glanced in; I didn't look at any of them."

"The stupid fool," said Snape, pointing at his unconscious body, "left the wand in the kitchen last night. If I'd had it and a pensieve, I wouldn't have spent nearly three hours puddling on the floor."

"I'll get it," said Hagrid, who was up and halfway to the kitchen door already. "On the counter, weren't it?"

"The question of your wand and your pensieve isn't the point at the moment," Potter continued. "The point is coffee. If you let me get one of the memories from the flask, I can bring you a cup of coffee."

"All right. Just don't hang around gawking. I put those memories there for a reason."

Potter walked over to the mantel where two oddly shaped, colored crystal flasks stood and unstoppered the green one. From it he took a thread of silver vapor and carried it over to the basin where Snape was. He dropped it in, and Snape immediately disappeared, apparently turning to vapor, too.

Potter then did a very strange thing. He picked up the cup of coffee in his right hand, stood beside the table, and bent over so that his face touched the floating mists in the basin. Hagrid, coming from the kitchen with another stick, slipped it into Potter's left hand and stepped beside him to steady the cup as Potter appeared to go rigid. It was, thought Hugh, an amusing sight. Beside him, Gillian pressed her lips together to suppress laughter.

The tableau lasted but a moment, and then Potter was with them again. Just as quickly, Snape, too, rematerialized, only this time with the cup in his hands, sipping at the coffee. The wand was sticking out of his jacket pocket.

"I don't understand," Hugh gasped. "How can he have the coffee when you're still holding the cup?"

"That's easy," said Hagrid, taking the wand from Potter and putting it into the pocket of the slumbering Richard. "We've got the form, 'n he's got the essence. Pretty simple when ya think about it."

"How Aristotelian," said Gillian.

"I wouldn't know," Hagrid admitted. "I just know it works."

"What does the form of coffee taste like without its essence?" Hugh asked, and Potter handed him the cup. Tentatively raising it to his lips, Hugh took a sip. It tasted like warm water. He let Gillian try it.

"I'll have to go back into the pensieve to get the cup back, otherwise this one won't hold anything whole again, but the coffee we can just toss out. That was, by the way, a very nice memory. I didn't know you and my mum went stargazing when you were in school."

"Moongazing, more like," Hagrid offered.

"How would you know?" asked Potter.

"They had t' go by the lake, didn't they? You think I didn't notice two students sneaking out after hours with a telescope?"

"How could that be?" Gillian asked. "Him and your mother, I mean. He's younger than you are."

Smiling and cocking his head to one side, Snape turned to Potter. "Ah, yes," he smirked as Hagrid looked up at the ceiling, whistling off key. "Just how were you planning to explain that?"

"Why do I have to explain it?" Potter demanded.

"You brought it up. We could have gone all day without mentioning me and your mother together in the same sentence, but no…" Snape raised both hands in a gesture of defeat, managing not to spill any of his coffee as he did so.

Potter took a deep breath and addressed the Latimers. "Would you mind sitting down? It will make this easier to take." Gillian sat in the wing backed chair she used earlier, while Hugh pulled over one of the kitchen chairs. Potter paced nervously for a bit and then started. "How much, actually, do you know about us? That includes rumors, of course."

"Actually," said Hugh, not glancing at Gillian, "rather a lot. I was three when the cottage burned down, but the village struggled with the memory of that day for a long time. The men found guilty of the deed spent time in jail…"

"Wait a minute!" Snape cried. "There was a trial? People were convicted for that? Why wasn't I told? I would have wanted to know!"

"You weren't born yet," Gillian pointed out, which sent Snape diving back into the mists of his basin.

"Is he going to be all right?" Hugh asked, then continued with his account. "Several people tried buying and living on the property, and every time they did, the stories were retold, so I grew up knowing it for a local legend. This was for several generations the home of the Rossendale family, who were widely known in the area as witches – good witches, healers and brewers of medicines. Everybody went to them before the National Health Service came in, and they were respected. They kept to themselves for the most part, but they were respected. The last of the Rossendales was a woman who married and became Mrs. Prince. They had a daughter, the husband died, and the daughter left, first to go to school and then to marry in a town a few miles from here. Her son, Mrs. Prince's grandson, would visit from time to time. They say he was a healer and a witch, too."

"Wizard," said Potter. "We use the word wizard."

"I thought a male witch was a warlock," Gillian said.

"Only if ya want t' be insulting," said Hagrid.

"Or demonstrate ignorance," added Snape, who chose this moment to reappear. The other two ignored him.

"That's about it," finished Hugh. "The neighborhood knows the place to be haunted, which is why no buyers ever stay. Local women come here when someone at home is sick. They say the fruit, vegetables, and herbs that grow here have curative properties. Certainly no one has another explanation for why they continue to grow untended after twenty years. Everyone assumes it's magic. The reason everyone knows about you," he nodded to Snape, "is because of Bill Morley. He nearly died of a fall back in the seventies, and old Mrs. Prince and her grandson healed him. He was driving by back in the spring when you and Mr. Potter were looking at the place and nearly had a heart attack. Thought he'd seen a ghost and came rushing to tell me. That's how we all knew, when you moved in, that you were family."

"Okay," Potter said. "you know about the magic. You were prepared for us. What you don't know is that our world has been at war for the last several years. Do you remember the Brockdale Bridge disaster three years ago? That was part of it. Anyway, last year we finally defeated the evil wizard who was causing all the problems, but in the fighting Mrs. Prince's grandson – by then he was a professor at that school you mentioned – well, he was killed. We managed to collect his thoughts and personality and store them in a magical container."

"That sounds wonderful!" Gillian's laugh was a touch on the hysterical side. "Do you do that for everyone?"

"No, ma'am. Even among wizards that's a unique occurrence. He existed like that, in a container, until this last February when we… sort of cloned a new body. That's also a unique occurrence, and that's why he's having trouble with it. The thoughts and the body don't exactly work together."

"Like rejecting grafted tissue, I suppose," mused Gillian. "How old is he really?"

"Thirty-nine," said Potter.

"Thirty-eight!" objected Snape from the pensieve. "Just remember, you don't age after you die. I am so looking forward to the day you'll be older than I am! By sunrise, November 21, 2018, you will officially be older than me!"

"Are you," Gillian asked next, "going to put him back in his… in the body."

"I'd do it now," Potter said. "All he has to do is tell me he's ready."

"I'm ready," Snape announced. "Just be sure it doesn't forget my wand again."

"Stop!" cried Potter. "We need to get one thing straight. You're the only conscious mind in there, so if he forgets anything, it's because you forgot it. Are we clear?"

"It's grafted tissue," Snape replied. "I can't be held entirely accountable."

"Get back in that memory so I can retrieve the cup, you infuriating midget, before I change my mind and leave you there."

Snape obeyed, and once again Potter leaned over with his face in the mist. When he emerged, he picked up the memory thread and replaced it in the green flask. This left a little gray cloud in the basin, which presumably was Snape. Potter carried the basin closer to the sleeping figure on the sofa, fished the cloud out with his wand, and held it against 'Richard's' head. The cloud seeped through skin and skull and disappeared. On the sofa, Snape sneezed.

"Are you feeling all right, lad?" asked Hagrid, bending over him in all solicitousness. "Ya gave us quite a turn."

"I'm fine," Snape snapped at him. "Get this blanket off me and let me fix breakfast. I'm starving. Are those muggles still here?" He swung his legs off the sofa and sat up.

"You know," cooed Gillian with a soft voice and a sweet smile, "Hugh is a dab hand at breakfast. I was wondering if you could show me around the garden. I've been dying to see it, and we could let them work for a change."

Snape peered at her suspiciously, then concurred. "It's about time someone else did some of the work. I'm going to show her the garden. You fix breakfast – and it had better be good!"

"Steady on," warned Hagrid. "First we got t' see if ya can stand without falling over."

"That's idiotic," said Snape, practically jumping to his feet, swaying dizzily, and sitting down again. "What happened?"

"Ya got t' go slow. Ya got t' get used t' the changes."

"Changes? There are no changes." Snape staggered to his feet again. "You see? Everything fine. This delightful lady wishes to see my garden. You will ensure that breakfast is ready when we return." He held out his arm for Gillian, to escort her into the garden.

"Don't worry," said Potter as he and Hagrid took Hugh into the kitchen to show him what food they had, "she'll be all right."

"I'm not worried about her," replied Hugh.

It was, in fact, Hagrid who spent the whole time watching out the kitchen window while Hugh checked the food supply. At first Hugh was a bit worried when he realized that there was no refrigerator, but the kitchen seemed cool in spite of the stove, things looked and smelled fine, he was going to cook them anyway, and these were wizards. He checked the stove for the temperature, then looked over what he had for ingredients.

"It's pretty late in the morning," he commented to Potter. "How would you like a Spanish potato omelet?" That suited everyone fine, and Hugh started slicing potatoes. "Why does Mr. Snape keep calling us muggles?" he asked after a moment.

"It's our word for non-magical people," said Potter. "Technically it's illegal to perform magic around you or even to let you know that we're different from you. We could potentially get into a lot of trouble for what happened this morning. I don't think Snape's worried about it; he just wants to be troublesome. Actually, his father was non-magical."

"It sounds like he's troublesome quite frequently."

"Don't go speaking ill o' the professor, now," said Hagrid without turning his attention from the window. "He ain't had the best o' things in his life, an troublesome's his way o' dealing with it." There was a small pause, and then Hagrid added, "Maybe ya ought t' be a mite worried there, Constable. She's got him smiling. I ain't never knowed him to smile much, not even as a lad."

The potatoes were cooking together with chopped onions, so Hugh took a moment to join Hagrid at the window. Gillian and Snape were at the upper end of the garden by a peach tree, and he was pointing out some of the overgrown area as if it were a rose garden. Both were talking like old friends. "Looks normal to me," said Hugh, and went back to cooking.

Breakfast went rather well, though it seemed a bit formal as all present did their best to be exquisitely polite with the occasional exception of Snape who, having nothing regarding Hugh's cooking to complain about, took advantage of the opportunity to point out the deficiencies in Hagrid's until Potter bluntly told him to 'lay off.'

"I beg your pardon," exclaimed Snape. "I was not laying on."

"Yes you were, and a heavy-handed job you were doing of it, too."

"Tha's all right, Harry," muttered Hagrid. "I don't mind."

"Well you should mind. He treats you like dirt."

"The question is not," pronounced Snape in an offended tone, "whether I treat Hagrid like dirt, but whether you have ever seen me treat anyone else any better."

"Isn't that 'My Fair Lady?' asked Gillian suddenly. "Henry Higgins, I think."

"It is indeed," said Snape, ignoring Potter and Hagrid. "Don't you think it was a shame they didn't let her sing that part? She'd sung in movies before. It cost her a shot at an Academy Award."

"Oh, are you a classic movie fan?" cried Gillian. "What do you think about…" and the argument about Hagrid's cooking was lost in a discussion about the cinema, a discussion that Hugh joined until Gillian lead it around to fantasy, and strange creatures, and then Hagrid chimed in, too. Hugh loved watching Gillian do this – it was a talent he didn't really have. Eventually the meal was over, and then he and Gillian took their leave of the odd trio.

"What do you think?" Hugh asked as they strolled home.

Gillian laughed. "Are you hoping I've been converted to believing in witches? Not yet, Hugh Latimer. You're going to have to do a lot better than this for that to happen. I wish I knew where the projector was for the hologram, though."

Hugh shook his head. "There's still too much of Glasgow in you Miss Ross. Whatever possessed you into marrying a country bumpkin like me?"

"It gave me that feeling of intellectual superiority I needed. Besides, you're a cute bumpkin."

Constable Latimer checked forward, backward, and on both sides for the presence of loiterers and, seeing none, slipped an arm around his missus and kissed her. "You'd do well," he said after a moment, "to cooperate with the law, or I'll have to take you in for questioning."

"Aren't you supposed to inform me of my rights first?" she countered. "I know what's what, and you can't deny me my rights."

"I wasn't thinking of denying you anything."

"What time do you take over the duty?"

"Not until six o'clock."

"Good. Let's get home, and you can consider me under arrest."

They continued down the road, hand in hand, and Hugh asked again, "What do you think?"

This time Gillian was more serious. "I think we have a few very disturbed people in that cottage."

"Observations?"

"Not enough to be sure, but I did ask Mr. Snape about Mr. Potter's comment that he was being mean. He said Mr. Potter was a molly-coddle, and then he volunteered the information that in seventeen years of teaching, under great provocation, he had never struck anyone. I told him he showed admirable restraint, and that Potter obviously didn't know what truly 'mean' was. He thanked me for my insight."

"Interesting," said Hugh. "And you interpreted this as…?"

"I took the seventeen years of teaching as part of the act they're putting on for us. I wonder if the verbal sparring is the same, or not. It has that nasty edge to it, though… I wouldn't be surprised if both of them hadn't been abused as children, though I rather think that for Mr. Snape the abuse was more… physical. I couldn't say for certain without more observation, though. Take it as a preliminary hypothesis."

"And Mr. Hagrid?"

"A strange one, that, but on the whole gentler and better balanced. If I had to choose which one to send into analysis, I'd go for Mr. Snape."

xxxxxxxxxx


	2. Chapter 2 – Prologue 2

**Elementary, My Dear Potter**

**Prologue: Baby Steps in the Right Direction**

The conversation back at the cottage was somewhat less amicable.

"Now there," Snape pronounced to the room in general after the Latimers had left, "is a woman of remarkable perception. You may be interested in knowing that she was not fooled for a moment by Potter's puppy dog eyes or his pretense at persecution. She saw him for the whiner he is."

"I am not a whiner!"

"There you go whining again. Hagrid, this poor excuse for a wizard has been whining from the beginning." Snape began a limp-handed parody of Harry for Hagrid's amusement. "Oh, professor, you have to handle me with kid gloves because I'm an orphan as well as a celebrity, and I'm not used to…"

"Shut up!" Harry snapped at him. "For your information, I got treated a lot worse by the Dursleys…"

"So you should have felt right at home."

"You picked on me from Day One!"

"I didn't speak to you on Day One. But when you sauntered into my classroom, I had a good opportunity to see if you took after your mother or your father. It was no contest. Like father, like son. Same laziness, same rudeness."

"I was not lazy! It was the first day!"

"You had those books for a month! Did it ever occur to you to open one of them? Your mother would have known the material backwards!"

"I did read them! I just didn't remember everything!"

"Your father's intellectual ability, too. You'd have done better to take after your mother!"

"My mother had a head start! She already knew she was a witch!"

Snape smiled a cold smile. "Granger didn't," he pointed out. "Granger was working in the same time frame you had. She knew the answers. It wasn't rocket science; it was all in the introduction and chapter one."

Harry was breathing heavily. "You bullied us from the moment we started at school, me and Neville. You're nothing but a big bully, and I should have stood up to you from the beginning."

"I thought you did," Snape said calmly. "You were cheeky from the beginning. You challenged my authority on the first day, you insulted me at every opportunity, and you endangered the physical well being of the other students in my class in order to further your own interests."

"I never…!"

"Second year, Potter! Great thing about pensieve memories – you get to notice things that were behind your back the first time around. A Filibuster firework tossed into Gregory Goyle's Swelling Solution to cover petty theft by Granger, half the class injured and three of them ending up in the hospital wing… I'd hate to see what your definition of endangering others is if that one doesn't make it. And you! You were laughing. You injured others, and you thought it was funny! Do you know the definition of Dark Magic, Potter? Better still, do you know the definition of sadism?"

"If I didn't before I got to Hogwarts, I'd have learned it from you." Harry had now grown almost as cold as Snape. If he was going to be forced to relive these memories, then he was going to turn them into weapons.

"I never touched you." Snape clearly felt himself on solid ground now. "I never touched any of you – not with a hand, and not with a wand. If violence erupted, it was always Gryffindor that started it."

"You can hurt just as much by what you say…"

"Oh, Potter, hadn't you heard? It's a deeply rooted part of British tradition: 'Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.' No one ever taught you that as a talisman against teasing? Your education has been neglected."

"You're behind the times," Harry shot back at him. "Verbal attacks wound just as much as physical ones, and emotional abuse is just as bad as a whipping."

Snape stared at Harry for a moment. "No," he said at last, "it isn't. Believe me, Potter, the two do not compare. I may, however, have to reevaluate your mother in that light. Your father was better at physical threats, but when it came to emotional bullying, she was the master."

"No!" Harry screamed at Snape. "My mother was a wonderful person, and you loved her!"

"My, my, what a difference a year makes." Snape's eyes were devoid of feeling, his voice soft. "There was a time when the thought that I had anything to do with your mother would have sent you into a murderous frenzy. Let me enlighten you about Saint Lily. She was a lot like her son. She, too, enjoyed having a slave to dance for her on the levee, playing his tambourine. Her only problem was that there were other people bidding on the same slave, and they were more powerful. She was never one to share, your mother. She wouldn't say yes to your father until she was sure she was strong enough to tear him away from Sirius…"

"You're a turd!" Harry yelled at him. "Dumping you was the smartest thing my mother ever did!" He wheeled and stormed out the front door, apparating to London before he was halfway across the yard.

"Good riddance," said Snape, watching through the front window as Harry departed.

"Ya sure got a way about ya," said Hagrid calmly. "It ain't often ya see a bloke so good at making enemies. Pity there ain't much call for it, or ya could patent and sell it."

"You can leave, too," Snape said without turning around. "I don't need you either."

"Tha's a good one. Le's see. Ya got a wand, so the next time ya get separated from that body, ya can get into the pensieve. After that… Well if nobody comes by f'r a couple o' days, the body's gonna get all dehydrated and die, along with every memory ya ain't put into that bottle yet… I can see how y're gonna have loads o' fun here."

"I'd be better off if I didn't have any memories."

"Ya know that ain't true. Ya got lots o' good memories."

"All of them associated with people who are dead. I'm surrounded by death."

"I ain't dead."

"We were talking about good memories."

Hagrid heaved himself off the chair. "If I was a sensitive person, I might take offense at that," he said. "What about that lady as used t' take care o' ya? That Mrs. Hanson?"

Snape's laugh was bitter. "Right. I haven't seen her in three years, and the last time I did, I was thirty-six. Now I'm seventeen, and I'm supposed to go up to her door and say, 'Hello, Mrs. Hanson. Remember me?' Brilliant idea."

"I was just pointing out as how she ain't dead 'n ya got some good memories there." Hagrid lumbered toward the kitchen. "I'm getting coffee. Ya want some?"

"How do you know she's not dead?" Snape demanded. "She was older than my mother. And what's the use of having someone you can never see again, even if they are still alive?"

Hagrid's coffee making was accompanied by thumps and bumps. "Sugar?" he called from the kitchen. "Cream?"

"There isn't any cream."

"Milk, then? Don't ya got no good school memories?"

"Black. No, wait. That's an ugly name and an ugly word. Sugar and milk. I was bullied in muggle school, and no adult lifted a finger. I was bullied in Slytherin, and you know how much attention Slughorn paid to that. I was bullied by Gryffindor, and not only did Dumbledore do nothing, McGonagall still thinks those sadistic hooligans were charming young men."

"Moongazing?" Hagrid asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway with two cups of coffee.

"I don't remember any moongazing," Snape said, taking the proffered cup.

"That's 'cause ya put it in the bottle. Ya should keep yer good memories in yer head."

"So I can remember all the good things I don't have anymore? That I haven't had since I was fourteen?" Snape sipped the coffee. "That's the advantage of bad memories. I can look around me right now and I can say 'At least I'm not getting the buckle end of a belt. At least I'm not getting punched in a playground. At least I'm not being ambushed and hexed in a corridor. At least I'm not getting cruciated by someone I call Lord.' That pansy Potter's an idiot. Do you know how much I would have given just to be yelled at instead of…"

There was a fireplace in the room, and Snape spun and flung the cup, coffee and all, against the stone. "I should be dead!" he screamed. "I should have died a year ago! I should have died in February! Why am I still here?"

"It might be fate. Maybe y've somewhat still to do."

"Do you have any idea how much I hate you!" Snape yelled, and launched himself in an attack on Hagrid.

There was, of course, no possible way in which Snape could injure Hagrid, and Hagrid knew it. Hagrid, on the other hand, had a plethora of ways to injure Snape. He made no avail of them. Instead, he caught hold of Snape's wrists and held him steady until Snape began to tire. "Ya ain't getting nowhere like this, lad," Hagrid commented after he sensed Snape weakening. You 'n me, we done this before."

"I hate you!" Snape screamed.

"Ya said that before," Hagrid replied. "No offense, but I'd be rather partial t' hearing something ya ain't said before. I take it ya ain't thrilled at the idea y're still meant t' do something."

"You sound like Dumbledore." Snape relaxed, and Hagrid let him go.

"Ain't too many ever accused me o' that before," said Hagrid. "It don't sound like a compliment, though."

"It's one of the ways Dumbledore used to control me. I was meant to do this… It was fate… There were important tasks only I could perform. Pull the string, the puppet dances."

"Thought ya was a slave with a tambourine."

"I'll use any metaphor I like!" Snape pointed his wand at the fireplace, said "Reparo!" and the cup was whole again, minus coffee. "All my life I've been doing what other people told me to do. My parents… Lily… the Dark Lord… Dumbledore… Then just when it looks like I might become my own master… I get killed."

"That ain't gonna wash. Y've had two months here being yer own master, 'n what've ya done with it?" Hagrid snagged the cup out of Snape's hand before he could throw it again. "Moping, that's all y're doing. Moping 'n feeling sorry f'r yerself. You chose this place to live. Ya musta had a reason."

"Fine!" Snape spat at him. "You're not fooling me. You just want to get rid of me like everyone else." He headed for the kitchen, talking as he went. "Look, I'm going outside where I can't bother you. I'm going to work in the garden!" He pulled open the back door, grabbed a trowel from a pile of tools next to the step, and strode out through the overgrown tangle to an indiscriminate patch of weeds about fifty feet away where he flung himself to his knees and began wrenching things out of the ground and tossing them behind him.

Hagrid stood at the back door and sighed, then, after a couple of minutes, turned and began a thorough inspection of the house, noting first the details of the reconstruction, then taking stock of every item in the place, and finally taking out his wand to dust and clean everything. It was a quick task as there wasn't much that needed cleaning, Snape having hardly used any rooms but the kitchen, the back bedroom, and the tiny upstairs bathroom, and being naturally tidy when it came to his surroundings. As a final touch, Hagrid gathered the few dishes and items of clothing into the kitchen where he washed everything, dried it, folded what needed folding, and put it away. Then he went out to where Snape still knelt in the dirt weeding, nodding slightly to himself as he noted that even in his morose state, Snape had pulled out only the actual weeds and had carefully tended the herbs that survived between them.

"I don't want t' sound critical nor nothing," said Hagrid after a moment, "but it don't look like y're planning t' stay here f'r very long."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Snape retorted, not looking up. "This is my home now. This is where I'm going to live out the rest of my natur… my unnatural existence. This is for the duration, the entire sentence."

"It's jury-built," Hagrid said, settling himself onto the ground after checking that he wasn't sitting on anything valuable. "The burned-out shell's still there underneath, 'n a lot o' what's covering it is thrown together quick or transfigured. One day it'll all come down around ya. Not tomorrow, but one day."

"It'll outlast me," Snape muttered, stabbing at the ground with his trowel.

"Maybe," Hagrid said. "I just thought ya'd do a better job. Y've always been one t' take more care with yer work."

The trowel plunged into the earth a few more times, then stopped. "It's me, isn't it?" said Snape quietly. "I'm not good enough."

"Now, lad, that's not what I meant."

"But it's true. I've never been good enough, just ugly and stupid. I was a disappointment to my father, I know. That's why he…" The trowel rose and stabbed the earth again. "Lily only noticed me because I forced her to, and dumped me as soon as she found the right excuse. If you're worth anything, people will like you, and if you aren't, they won't. It's that simple. If you're useful, they'll tolerate you." Snape rose and brushed the dirt from his trousers. "I'm just not useful anymore," he said, turning away from Hagrid, and walking back into the cottage.

"Drat!" muttered Hagrid, struggling to his feet and following. The lower rooms were empty, so Hagrid went up to the bedroom where Snape again lay on the bed facing the wall.

It was now early evening, and most of the nearby cottagers and villagers were home in anticipation of supper, so it was probably the best time of day for Hagrid to go to the village himself. He had no illusions as to how the unprepared would react to his appearance, and hoped that those he encountered were like Constable Latimer and his wife. He had taken the precaution of 'borrowing' a little muggle money from a jar Snape kept in the kitchen so that he would have the pretext of shopping. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all Hagrid could think of at the moment.

Fortunately, Hagrid got as far as Bill Ridley's grocery without being seen. Bill, whose nephew was one of the three local constables, had been warned by Hugh that one of the visitors at the Prince place was… large. He didn't bat an eye when Hagrid came into his store.

"How may I help you, sir?"

"Sausages," said Hagrid at once. "That or bacon. Or maybe kipper. He always did like kipper. Here." He held out a massive hand with a few coins in it. "How far 'll that take me?"

"Not very, I'm afraid," Bill thought a bit, his forefinger scratching his jaw. Pork's not too dear – I've got some nice chops – that and the sausages is about all you could do with that."

"I'll take it," said Hagrid. "Ya wouldn't happen t' know a policeman named Latimer, would ya? Got a nice wife, too."

"Hugh and Gillian? Everyone knows them. Hugh'll be on duty tonight. You could call him if he's needed."

"Call him?" Hagrid wrinkled his brow. "Would that be with one o' them tellyphones?"

Bill smiled slightly. "Yeah. I've got a 'phone right here in the shop, if you'd like to use it."

"Well, now… I ain't handled one in a while. I ain't sure…"

"I'll ring him for you," said Bill, picking up the receiver and punching in the numbers. There was a slight pause. "Gillian? Bill Ridley here. There's a chap here who says he's made your acquaintance and would like to talk to Hugh… Right… You certainly weren't exaggerating there… Hold on." He turned to Hagrid. "Did you want to see the constable or Mrs. Latimer? He's gone off to Salterforth, but she expects him back in half an hour or so."

Hagrid thought of Snape talking animatedly to Gillian in the garden that afternoon. "If it ain't too much trouble f'r her," he said. "She might be a sight better under the circumstances than him. If it ain't too much trouble."

It was not too much trouble, and Gillian was at the grocer's shop in five minutes. "Has something happened, Hagrid?" she asked at once.

"Loads. First he got angry 'n drove Harry off, then he went for me, then he went out in the garden, but soon he's talking like nobody'd want a bloke like him anyway, 'n he ain't even useful anymore, 'n now he's lying upstairs with his face t' the wall."

"How often does he do this?"

"Not too… but then he's had a lot to keep him occupied 'til recent. The worst before this was back when his parents died in that car crash, but that was a good ways back."

"There's been quite a bit of trauma there, I see. Bill," Gillian turned to the grocer, "I've left a note for Hugh, but if you see him before he goes home, tell him I'm at the Prince place. It's professional. He can try the mobile, but it seems to be a dead area, so it might not work."

"Right you are," said Bill. He wrapped the sausages and the chops and handed Hagrid his package of meat. "You let me know if he needs anything else."

"I'm obliged," said Hagrid, and left with Gillian. "What did you mean," he asked her a few moments later as they walked along the country road, "by it being professional?"

"Oh, that." Gillian smiled slightly. "I'm taking courses to qualify as a mental health assistant for the health center at Colne. I'd get case work in the villages. It's not like being a doctor or a nurse, but it's a service we need out here."

"Do ya know what ails the professor?"

"Professor? A seventeen-year-old professor? I know, he's really stuck at thirty-eight. That's going to take some getting used to. I have a good idea what the symptoms are, but I'd like to find out more about the underlying cause. Does he have any family at all?"

"Nope. Not a soul since his gram died in that fire when he was…" Hagrid started to redden. "Well, that was when he really was seventeen. Ya don't think that's why… Nah."

"All right, no family. What about friends? A support group?"

"Can't think he had more 'n one, and she's been dead nigh on eighteen year."

Gillian stopped there in the road and glared at Hagrid. "You won't let this go, will you?" she said accusingly. "You know, your friend's mental health might be more important than this charade you're putting on."

"Sorry, ma'am." Hagrid couldn't look her in the eyes, but it wasn't for lack of honesty. "I don't know how t' explain it t' ya except that it's part o' the problem. I've knowed him since he were eleven, and that's getting close on twenty-eight years ago. I helped bring his body back when he died 'n helped bury it over by Pendle Hill. There's a town not five miles from here where there're people who'd look at him and swear they'd seen a ghost – 'n he'd tell them things no one else but him could tell. I know ya don't believe what we are, but I can't help that. I can't change my story, 'cause then I'd be lying. 'N begging yer pardon, ma'am, but if ya don't understand y're dealing with a growed man 'n problems that go back more 'n thirty years, how're you gonna be able t' help him?"

It was a fair question. Gillian dropped the argument. "Earlier today," she said, resuming her walk, Hagrid matching her pace, "there was some mention of a faked suicide. What was that all about?"

Hagrid knit his brows. "That's a long story, ma'am. Le's see if I can shorten it f'r ya." He thought for a moment. "In the last bit o' fighting 'gainst the evil wizard – we can tell ya all about that later – Professor Snape got put together the way he is now, old mind 'n thoughts in a young body. The Ministry o' Magic…" Hagrid paused slightly, but as Gillian did not interrupt in surprise, he continued, "they had a hearing, like a trial, to decide if he was a legal person or not. They said he wasn't."

"Not a person!" Gillian exclaimed. "Are you serious? They told him he wasn't a person?"

"Tha's right, ma'am. Ya see, he can do things like go inside someone else's head 'n see what they're thinking, 'n the Ministry – well, he thinks, 'n Harry thinks, 'n some others, too, as the Ministry saw him as a weapon, 'n they wanted t' keep their hands on him. He was due a reward f'r what he did in the fighting, 'n he told 'em he had a muggle nephew who'd get the money. That's who he's supposed t' be here, the nephew. Then he 'n Harry, 'n I guess Robards, they pretended he killed hisself jumping off a cliff so 's he could come here 'n be normal again. It weren't no real suicide."

"Has he ever talked about suicide before?"

"Talked about it? Nah. Tried to take a walk off the Astronomy Tower when he heard that lady friend o' his had been killed…"

"Whoa!" The two of them stopped again. "That's four already. Killed, I mean. His parents, his grandmother, this friend… How many people have been killed?"

"I'd have t' count," said Hagrid. "Schoolmates in Slytherin house, Evan, Aaron, Regulus, Bella, 'n the lads he tangled with in Gryffindor, James, Sirius, Remus, Peter. Lily, o' course. Students he taught, Fred, Tonks, Colin, there were nigh fifty at the battle f'r the school last year. 'N then there were…"

"All right. I understand. This isn't a simple case. How many of those deaths does he feel responsible for?"

"That he killed hisself, or just assisted?"

There was a low stone wall separating the road where they were walking from a little pasture area, and Gillian leaned against it, almost sitting, left arm across her chest propping her other elbow, face cupped in her right hand. "Killed?" she whispered.

"Oh, they both asked him to. Dumbledore argued with him f'r months 'cause Snape, he didn't want to, 'n Moody – he were dying already 'n it was to save him from torture – so it ain't like actual murder…"

"How long did this fighting go on?"

"The first time, eleven years. He were twenty-one when it stopped. Then he'd promised t' help take care o' Harry. Harry's mum was the friend who died. 'N then that evil wizard came back about four years ago…"

"I see. So now that the fighting is over, this is the first opportunity he's had to just relax and think about himself."

"That's about it, ma'am."

The cottage was quiet when the two arrived. Hagrid trudged upstairs to be sure Snape was still where Hagrid had left him, then he came down to fix a light supper for himself and Gillian. She, meanwhile, was wandering through the cottage, this time noting all the furniture and the titles of the books. She was the one who found the box full of voodoo dolls, shrunken heads, poison dart blowers, and all the other dark objects collected for more than one lifetime by more than one person. She didn't mention it to Hagrid when she went into the kitchen to join him.

Hugh arrived around nine o'clock bringing tins and packages of things that Hagrid would never have known about but which needed no refrigeration to stay good for a long time. "Ya can put bacon in one o' these?" Hagrid asked, examining a tin. "What won't they think of next?"

"You're not off duty now, are you?" Gillian said. "I haven't had a chance to talk to him yet."

"Take your time," Hugh said, knowing her private smile meant that she, too, was glad they'd had the time together that afternoon. "I can't stay, though. I need to be where I can get a signal if anyone rings me."

"I may be all night."

"I may camp on the road." Hugh left, not walking this time but on a bicycle that he'd left by the gate. He had a car, of course, and used it when needed, but it attracted too much attention in the quiet evening, and the bicycle was more discreet and almost as fast.

Almost as soon as Hugh left, Snape appeared on the stairs. "What is this?" he demanded. "Paddington Station? Who gave all you people the right to come storming in and out of my house. Get out!"

Gillian took a sip of her tea. "I was hoping to have a chance to chat with you," she said. "From what you told me this afternoon, you've had a fascinating life."

"What did I tell you this afternoon?" Snape inquired cautiously. "I don't remember anything fascinating." He didn't sound enthusiastic, but he wasn't ordering her out either.

"I thought it was. How you grew up near here and learned about making medicines when you were just a child. And how you know about all the plants here, their names and everything. I grew up in a big city, and we didn't have gardens like this one."

"Really," said Snape, pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting with them at the table. "Where are you from?"

"Glasgow."

"Funny, you don't sound Scottish."

"Not everyone speaks with a burr."

"I was in Glasgow a couple o' times," Hagrid volunteered.

"Who asked you?" Snape snapped at him.

"Just trying t' make conversation."

Gillian, too, ignored Hagrid. "Everyone keeps calling you 'Professor.' What were you a professor of?"

"Potions. It's similar to pharmacy. I've trained quite a few apothecaries."

"Were you planning on turning one of these rooms into a little druggist's workshop?"

Snape's face closed suddenly, and became cold and aloof. "That would hardly be wise," he said, then rose from the table and went out the back door into the deepening twilight of the garden. "Shouldn't you be getting back to that copper husband of yours?"

"May I drop by tomorrow? I really am interested in the medical part of it."

"As you wish."

Hagrid walked Gillian to the gate and a good distance down the road. "It's the cottage," he explained. "He's gone 'n cobbled it together with magic, specially the upstairs. There's certain things y're supposed t' do without magic interfering, potions being one of 'em. Ya reminded him o' that."

"Do you think maybe he's just using that as an excuse for not having to mix any potions?"

"I don't think so. I checked the whole house. He's put it up real quick. It might not last two years. Not the right atmosphere f'r potions at all. Even I know that much about it."

"What would it take to have the right atmosphere?"

"Rebuild the whole house." Hagrid shook his head. "That ain't gonna happen real soon."

"What about building a separate little shed, maybe like a greenhouse, just for the potions? If you did that, do you think he'd use it? Honestly, if feeling useful is one of the things that takes his mind away from his other problems, then mixing things might help."

This time Hagrid nodded. "Ya might be right. I'll make sure he don't harm hisself tonight, 'n tomorrow I'll think what can be done."

The following morning, however, it was Harry Potter who helped work out the solution. He took it upon himself to apparate to Weetsmoor, inquire of a couple of the locals (who seemed to know who he was) where the constable lived, and arrive on the Latimers' doorstep at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. Hugh, on duty until two that morning, was still asleep. Gillian answered the door.

"Good morning," Gillian said. "I heard you had a bit of a tiff with the professor yesterday. Come in and have a cup of coffee."

"Thanks for being so nice so early in the morning," Harry replied. "I'd love the coffee. Does everyone in this town know everything that happens out there?"

"It helps if someone as big as Mr. Hagrid comes wandering into the village looking for a constable. In general, though, yes. Everyone knows everything. I went out there myself yesterday evening."

"How are they?"

"Not good. Your professor is a very disturbed person." Gillian poured the coffee and set some pastries in front of Harry.

"I could have told you that when I was eleven," said Harry, taking a bite. "He's always been like that."

"Mr. Potter, nobody has 'always' been like that. We all started out as wee babes in arms. That man, young or old as he may be, has gone through a lot to make him what he is. Do you know if he's ever had psychiatric help?"

"A psychiatrist!" Harry laughed out loud. "I don't think wizards have psychiatrists. And I don't think Professor Snape would talk to one if they did. He's pretty independent about everything. Pretty self-sufficient."

"So self-sufficient he's shutting himself off from human contact now in the same way that he did when he was fourteen and his parents died?" Gillian leaned forward across the table. "Do you want him to try to kill himself like he did when your mother died?"

"Hey!" said Harry, setting his cup down. "That's private! You're not supposed to go messing around in my family. Or his for that matter. Where'd you learn that?"

"Mr. Hagrid told me. And you're right, it's a matter of privacy. So I shall bow out of the matter altogether, in accordance with your wishes. I do strongly suggest, however, that you advise his personal physician of recent events and get him to a psychiatrist."

Harry balked. "Personal physician? I'm not sure… And I told you about wizard psychiatrists." He picked up the cup again. "What else did Hagrid tell you?"

"That your professor never did have but one friend, and she's been dead for a long time. That a large number of the people in his life are not only dead, but were killed in a kind of war. That the cottage he's living in was slapped together by 'magic' and is temporary. That he doesn't consider it possible that people would like him, and now that he's no longer useful, he isn't even tolerated. That the most useful thing he might do is brew simple medicines, but he can't do that because of the nature of the construction of the cottage. Would you like me to continue?"

"How do you know all that?" Harry got up and poured himself a second cup of coffee. "You haven't known him twenty-four hours and already it sounds like you know more than I do. How do you know that?"

"I ask questions where I know I can get answers, and where the answers are grudged, I don't ask questions. People will tell you a lot if they think you're not asking."

There was a sound on the stairs, and Hugh appeared wrapped in a blue dressing gown that was tied at the waist. He had pajamas on under it and was wearing a pair of brown slippers. "I heard voices," he said. "Where's the coffee?"

Harry looked at Gillian, and she shrugged. "Of course he knows. The police have a right to know if there's a potential suicide in the neighborhood. I suggested to Mr. Hagrid last night…"

"Ahem," Harry interrupted with a cough. "He's not going to like being called 'Mr.' I'd suggest you drop it because you sound like a police inquiry. He's got his pride, you know. And I'm just Harry."

"Okay. And I'm Gillian, and that's Hugh when he's not on duty. Anyway, I suggested to Hagrid that you put up a shed or a greenhouse for a 'potions' workshop. One that has nothing to do with magic. That way he can be busy doing something."

"Is that going to solve his problems? Something that simple?"

"Of course not. But in cases like these, the symptoms can become a major part of the problem. Right now his depression is augmented by feelings of uselessness and isolation. Our first baby step is to show him he's still useful, and to make him less isolated. By force, if necessary."

Harry looked uncomfortable. "Force? I don't like that idea."

"It isn't really force. He's very likely, however, to insist that you leave him alone. This is partly because he thinks you don't really want to be there, and partly to reinforce his own negative image of himself. If you take him at his word and simply leave, you're supporting the depression. Don't chain yourself to him, but quietly and calmly stay where he can see you or where you can respond to him at once."

"Sort of what Hagrid does all the time," Harry grinned.

"Yeah," Gillian smiled. "Like Hagrid does."

"I was thinking," said Hugh, wide awake now because of the coffee, "that we could hop on down to Manchester and see if you can find one of those ready-made greenhouses that you just assemble. I've seen them around – aluminum frame, polycarbonate walls, fairly easy to set up." He frowned slightly. "They cost a few hundred pounds, though."

Gillian started ticking off places on her fingers. "There's the shop in Bolton, they have quite a bit. And there's one in Oldham, too. I think Nick said they got a nice little shed in Failsworth…"

Harry was standing next to the kitchen sink and turned to look out the window. The Latimers had a garden, too, though much of it was scrub and weeds, and the few tended plants were small. "I've never been to any of those places," he said. "I wouldn't be able to apparate there."

"Apparate?" said Hugh. "What's that?"

"It's how we travel quickly. A magic thing."

"It seems to me," Hugh pointed out, "that if these potions he's going to be making aren't supposed to be done by magic, then the less magic around them, the better. I was thinking of borrowing Fred Allsop's pickup truck and driving down. It's a pleasant ride, and that's where the larger stores are. Things are more likely to be open on a Sunday around Manchester, too."

"Why are you doing this for me?" Harry asked. "It seems a lot of trouble for someone you don't know."

The question fell into silence, and Harry sensed that behind his back Hugh and Gillian were exchanging glances and trying to work out what to say. Hugh started. "This is a small village, and people are more likely to move out than move in, but we all know each other, we're like family. Your friend is part of the family now, more so since he even has roots here. Pretty long roots if what you tell us about him is true. We didn't think our offer was unusual. Just normal. I know Fred would be pleased to lend the pickup after what Mr. Snape did to save his Daisy."

"We also know," continued Gillian, "that you've all been through some pretty rough times, not just the professor. Hagrid was telling us how much the professor's lost, but that means the two of you have lost it, too."

"We're different," said Harry quietly. "We have friends to talk to."

"I'm glad to hear that. You don't know how glad I am to hear that. But here, in this place, there are only the three of you, and it's easier when you don't have to bear all the burden yourself. Think of us as your backup, your support team." Harry nodded, and Gillian added, "I'm going up to get ready. I won't be but a few minutes."

When she'd gone, Hugh came to stand looking out the window with Harry. "I used to play around that cottage," he said. "We all knew about the fire – it was the village's dark, scary secret – and we lads used to climb through the burnt-out shell and play we were witches, and you know… Sometimes you could feel it – the magic around the place. Then I grew up and went off to school and university, and I thought it was just something kids do, pretend to feel what's not there. Now he's there, and it's like something missing has been found. The whole village feels it. Fred's horse was a sign. They'd all like to help, they're just not sure how to go about it. I'm going to ring up a couple of people now and get dressed. Make yourself at home."

"What I really need," said Harry, "is a quiet spot outside where nobody will see me. I need to go to London for some money."

"The garden's pretty quiet, especially this time on a Sunday morning. You could use that."

Harry went out into the garden, his thoughts in a whirl. He didn't remember the community in Little Whinging being this tight-knit or supportive. They'd known each other, but each family had had its own circle of friends, mostly outside the neighborhood, and it was always to that outside circle that they turned in time of need. Pondering the contrasts, he concentrated, spun, and apparated.

Upstairs, Gillian had heard the back door open and close. She had moved to the window of the bedroom to look down and see Harry standing outside. Not wishing to spy, she was going back to her own business when there was a movement, a popping sound, and suddenly Harry was no longer there. Gillian finished getting dressed very quickly and went looking for Hugh.

"All right, how did you do that?" Gillian leaned against the jamb of the bathroom door watching her husband shave. She was also enjoying the view, since Hugh was shirtless. He was slender, clean-limbed and smooth skinned, and could have passed for a few years younger than twenty-four. He was, in fact, quite young for his job, but it was not always easy to find somebody content to deal with half a score tiny villages, and his youth was balanced by the relative maturity of Ridley and Cranmer.

"Do what?" Hugh asked, paying careful attention to his left jaw, for he used an old-fashioned safety razor rather than an electric one.

"Make him disappear – poof! – just like that."

"Disappear? He did say he had a quick way to get to London." Finished now, Hugh rinsed the lather from his face and splashed on a little aftershave. It had almost no scent at all, which both he and Gillian preferred.

As Hugh pulled on his shirt, Gillian reflected that in all the time she'd known him, at Glasgow University and in the months since their wedding, Hugh had never tried to deceive her or even tease for more than a few minutes, and then always gently. For him to join these outsiders in an elaborate hoax was totally alien to his character. She'd noticed no other changes in him to make her suspect…

"Penny for your thoughts?" Hugh was combing his hair and grinning.

"Nothing," she answered. "Are we taking lunch or stopping along the way?"

"Let's make an outing of it and stop."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

He took her in his arms. "More than anything. Well, almost anything. It's hard to explain, Gill, but it's like a part of my life I never thought I'd see again has come back. It's even stronger for the older people. Tell me, in the short time you've been here, have you ever known Bill Ridley to extend credit without blinking an eye? Or Fred Allsop so quick to tell a vet what to do with his advice?"

Before Gillian could answer, there was another 'pop' outside, and the opening of the back door. "We'll be right down, Harry," Hugh called. He pecked his wife on the check and hurried to make his telephone calls.

"That was quick," Gillian said to Harry as she followed Hugh more slowly down the stairs. "All the way to London and back."

"I stopped off at the cottage, too," Harry said, "to tell Hagrid what we're doing."

"How are they?"

"Snape's bossing Hagrid around, making him gather and chop wood for the stove. I apparated far enough away so they didn't hear me and talked to Hagrid alone. He says Snape's grumpy, but active. He wants to work in the garden after he fixes lunch, and he's spent part of the morning moving the furniture in the front room around. Not with magic either. Actually pushing it."

"That's great!" Gillian laughed. "Better than lying all day in a bed."

Hugh joined them. "Fred says he'd be proud to lend the truck. He'll bring it around in just a minute. He also says be sure whatever we get has a steel base, especially if it's light weight. Better in a storm."

The truck, when it arrived, was white and fairly new. It had an extended cab, with another bench behind the front seats, which is where Gillian insisted on sitting. Before boarding, Hugh introduced Harry to Fred, and the two shook hands. "You wouldn't also be…?" Fred asked softly, and when Harry admitted he was, Fred shook harder. "And in my truck, too. Pleased to be of service. Pleased to be of service."

The ride was a pleasant one, starting on a country road which quickly became a trunk road. Instead of going on the motorway at Colne, Hugh took the slower road through the Pendle Forest area, with its rolling, rocky hills, moor and farmland interspersed with scattered stands of trees, and the imposing bulk of Pendle Hill off to the right. It was open, wide, and beautiful, and once again Harry was amazed that Snape had come from a place like this.

Another thing that Harry found amazing was the ride itself. The last time he'd been in a muggle car was two years before, when Uncle Vernon had picked him up at King's Cross Station and driven him 'home' to Little Whinging at the end of his sixth year. He'd never, in all his life, ever been in the front seat (driving to Hogwarts with Ron in the enchanted Ford Anglia didn't really count). The view was spectacular, the dials and lights on the dashboard fascinating, and Hugh and Gillian were like tour guides, pointing out all the things of interest to see.

The garden shop was a treasure trove. Harry hadn't thought about it before – there were a lot of things he hadn't thought about before – but he'd grown up in a neat, pleasant neighborhood full of grass, flowers, and trees. Even Aunt Petunia's precisely trimmed hedges, carefully pruned roses, prim little flower beds and, yes, the garden bench, spoke of a calm and peaceful life with attention paid to the sweeter things. It was a far cry from the stark poverty of ancient cobbles and a dirty, graveled area yard. Now, wandering through rooms and rows and wide squares of potted lemon trees, hydrangeas, ferns, and rhododendrons; shelves full of little pots of sage, hyssop, and mint; lettuces and tomatoes ready to set out; racks and racks of seeds; wrought-iron tables and chairs, artificial fountains, stone bird baths, and cute little statues of flamingos and gnomes (muggle gnomes, not wizard ones), Harry was glad for the spacious garden of Snape's grandmother, and Snape's chance to dig his hands, while still a boy, deep in the soil, and smell the heady aroma when you brushed against rosemary.

They took some care, he and Hugh and Gillian, in the selection of a greenhouse. The one they bought had a galvanized steel base, aluminum frame, and polycarbonate sheets for walls, plus a vent in the sloped roof to keep the interior from getting too hot. It was nearly nine feet long and about six and a half feet wide, and was supposed to be able to stand up to gale force winds if properly put together. It cost under three hundred pounds, and Harry paid with cash, which shocked the cashier so much she almost asked him for identification.

It was still a bit early for lunch, so the three started back home, thinking to stop in Nelson for a bite to eat. "How long have you known the professor?" Gillian asked after they had passed Haslingden.

"Since I was eleven," Harry told her. "He was my Potions teacher for five years."

"I got the impression you had a rather stormy relationship."

Harry made a sound partway between a snort and a huff. "I used to think he hated me, he was so nasty. I never found out until it was too late that he was also looking out for me. Kids always think the whole world started with them. They don't consider that adults had this whole other life before they were born. I didn't really find out about Professor Snape's other life until after it was too late. I'm kind of glad I got another chance."

"He knew your mother?" It was a more of a statement, and Gillian was pretty sure Harry wouldn't question it.

"She was his only friend. I've thought a lot about what my life might have been like if I didn't have Ron and Hermione, or Ginny, or the whole Weasley family for that matter. I don't think I could have made it all those years without someone to spill my guts to. Just knowing they were there got me through a lot."

"Didn't he have anyone else? It was a big school." This was a leap in the dark because Gillian had no idea how big the school was, or too many details about the friendship for that matter, but it seemed the right thing to say.

"Somebody, several years ago, told me he did, but I found out later that they were just manipulating him because they wanted to use his talents. They lured him over to the other side, but when he really had to make a choice, he chose my mother. They hadn't even seen each other in more than two years, she ditched him for my father, and helping her could have gotten him killed, but when he had to make the choice… And then he stayed there to be a spy for us. If it hadn't been for him, the evil side would have beaten the good side. I don't have all the details, but I know he suffered a lot. I could kick myself for not realizing it until after he was dead."

It was more information than Gillian had expected. She didn't press further. A few minutes later they pulled into Nelson and started looking for somewhere nice to eat. Harry, unexpectedly, made the choice for them. "Fish and chips!" he shouted as they passed a place with a garish sign. "He loves fish and chips!"

"All right," Hugh shouted back, "but not here!" He drove until they came to a place with a matronly name and the word 'traditional' on its signboard. Stopping the truck in the street, he asked, "Do you want to eat here, or do you just want to pick up something on the way home?"

"I want to eat here," proclaimed Harry. "How can I get fish and chips here unless I know they're good?"

Hugh parked the truck and they all walked to the restaurant. "Just how good an expert are you when it comes to fish and chips?" Hugh asked Harry as he pushed open the door.

Everything was excellent, and the fish and chips were like the distillation of a primal memory. The conversation was, in a way, neutral because Hugh and Gillian talked more about the village than they did about wizards. Then, as they were leaving, they ordered takeaway for Snape and Hagrid.

Not too many minutes after that, the white pickup truck stopped outside the gate of the Prince place.

Hagrid had been watching out the window from time to time and opened the front door when the truck stopped. "Is that you, Harry?" he called.

"Yeah," Harry called back as he clambered out of the truck's cab. "We brought a couple of things."

A slim, dark figure appeared at the upper window, opened it, and leaned out. "Don't you park that noisy, smelly thing in front of my home! Get it out of here!" The window slammed shut and Snape disappeared only to reappear again behind Hagrid. "Do you hear me?" he shouted, striding across the yard, "There's no stopping here!"

"It's a public road, sir," said Hugh mildly. "We're dropping Mr. Potter off."

Harry was more direct. "I hope you haven't eaten yet," he said, and held out the paper bag. "This is for you and Hagrid."

The bag was still quite warm, and opening it released the aroma of the food inside. Snape paused for a moment to inhale it, then seemed to shake himself. "Hagrid!" he yelled over his shoulder, "this is for you!"

"Oh," cried Gillian, descending from the cab herself, "you've already had lunch. We were so hoping to get here on time."

Snape stared at her. "No," he said, "we have not had lunch. Hagrid is probably quite hungry. I'm sure he appreciates this."

"I'm very sorry to trouble you," Gillian continued, "but I was wondering if you had any borage. There's a yoghurt fish sauce I'd like to try, but it isn't an herb people grow much around here."

Once again there was a slight pause as Snape seemed to take this in. "There used to be," he said, "but I haven't cleared there yet. Perhaps I could find some for you." He wheeled abruptly and headed toward the back of the garden, the bag of fish and chips still in his hand. Gillian followed quickly behind him.

"Good," said Hugh to Harry and Hagrid, who had joined them. "Let's get this out of the truck." He lowered the tailgate and they slid out all the metal rods and polycarbonate panels and stacked them in the open grassy area of the front yard.

The three men could see Gillian and Snape in the back. She was now holding the bag of food while he waded into weeds in search of the borage that memory told him had once been there. Borage is no shy, low-lying plant, and only the abundance of other growth temporarily shielded it from sight. Snape found it quickly and gathered a leaf or two for Gillian to sample. Gillian, meanwhile, had opened the bag and was nibbling on a plump stick of fried potato. When Snape brought her the leaves, she offered him the bag, holding it so that he could extract one of the chips, too, which he did. Together, examining the herb and eating the food, they headed toward the back door.

"That's it," said Hagrid, "hooked and landed. Le's go inside. Act like ev'rything's perfectly normal."

Harry and Hugh followed him into the cottage where it turned out that Snape had started to prepare a salad for lunch with an assortment of lettuces and other vegetables from the garden. It was a good thing they'd brought extra takeaway for Hagrid because it turned out they were expected to have lunch with him and Snape. Nobody mentioned that they'd already eaten.

It wasn't a talkative meal. Harry contributed most, describing the ride in the truck and the wealth of goods in the garden store, with Hagrid adding appreciative comment, and Hugh and Gillian contributing details. Snape remained glum and taciturn, but at least he remained – and ate his food, and sipped his tea. Harry was beginning to learn that moments like this were victories.

"Well," said Snape finally, having beaten Hagrid to the last piece of fish, a competition that Hagrid had cunningly contrived as a way to spark Snape's interest in consuming one more bite of food, "let's look at this 'thing' you've purchased."

On the way out, Gillian managed to whispered privately to Harry and Hagrid, "Don't be too competent about this. He needs to take possession of it himself for this to work." Harry nodded in understanding, but he rather thought that Hagrid hadn't needed to be told.

At first Snape stood aside as the others began to lay the various components of the greenhouse out on the lawn. After a few minutes, he said, "You're not going to build it here."

"Why not?" asked Hagrid, counting the nuts and bolts in a large, zip-locked bag.

"And have everything disturbed by the noise and vibration and fumes of passing vehicles? No wonder Potter here never got an Outstanding in Potions. I marvel he did better than Poor." Which started a discussion about the location of the little workshop. It was the first step. Snape had accepted the presence of the greenhouse on his property.

For nearly an hour, Snape proved himself bossy and impossible to please. He wanted his workshop near the cottage for convenience but no, that near would invite interference from the crude magic of the dwelling. This spot was well drained, but exposed to wind. That spot was sheltered but had overhanging branches. Harry and Hugh did most of the lifting and shifting, beginning to perspire now in the heat of the afternoon, while Hagrid handled the heaviest pieces, and Gillian listened, commenting, asking questions, and gradually getting Snape to recognize and state what his needs and priorities were. He finally settled on a spot northeast and a bit to the rear of the cottage where rising ground coming up from a tiny stream leveled for a moment, enough for the steel base to fit comfortably. The whole area was in the lee of Weets Hill and reasonably sheltered despite Snape's previous protestations.

As the men began the job of moving everything for the last, they hoped, time, a man's voice shouted from the road, "Afternoon, Mr. Snape. You wouldn't have Hugh Latimer in there by any chance?" It was Fred Allsop.

Harry at first thought Snape was going to order the man off his property, but instead Snape seemed pleased to see him. "Mr. Allsop," he called back, "he's here; I've got him working. Come in and watch. It should be amusing." As Fred approached, he added, "How is your mare doing?"

"Hale and hearty, Mr. Snape. Hale and hearty. I just came to see if Hugh still needed the truck. Look's like you're making an addition." Fred's eyebrows shot up at the sight of Hagrid, but he said nothing. He'd probably been forewarned.

"We are if these gentlemen are more talented than they appear to be," Snape said maliciously. "From the way it looks now, we'll be here all month."

"I got myself one of those in March," Fred offered. "It's a mite smaller than yours, but same construction. Very useful. Sturdier than it looks."

"That's good to hear. What do you think? Do you think they'll have it up before the frost sets in?" None of the others said anything, Harry and Hugh were trying to bolt the steel frame together, Gillian was studying the instructions, and Hagrid was moving the last of the framework. They were listening, however.

"They might," said Fred reflectively, rubbing his chin. "I had a bit of trouble with that base myself. Took me a while to figure it out. I wouldn't want to butt in though. Too many cooks…"

"Oh, go ahead," Snape urged. "Tell them what they're doing wrong. Make my day."

It turned out that Harry and Hugh had one of the pieces upside down, a revelation that caused Snape no end of pleasure and put him firmly in Fred Allsop's camp. Fred, modest and plainspoken, took over the direction of the project to the relief of everyone involved. Gillian went into the cottage to make some tea. After several minutes, Snape followed her.

"Isn't it a bit hot for tea?" he asked. The kettle was beginning to boil.

"They need something to drink," said Gillian, "and since it's well water, I'd rather have it boiled, if you don't mind."

"The water is fine, and probably safer than anything you'd get in a city," Snape responded, "but if it makes you feel better, make the tea, let it cool, and served it iced. There's mint in the garden if you'd like."

Gillian smiled. "How am I supposed to serve it iced? You don't have a refrigerator."

"Very simple," said Snape. He opened one of the cupboards and pulled out an old-fashioned metal ice cube tray. The tea was steeping in the pot, so Snape took the kettle from Gillian and poured the rest of the hot water into the tray. Then he slipped his wand out of his sleeve into his right hand, flicked it, and said, _"Congelato!"_ The water in the tray cracked noisily as it froze on the spot. "There," said Snape, replacing his wand, "now you can make iced tea." He turned and walked back outside to watch the construction.

Gillian just stood there and stared at the ice cube tray. Timidly, cautiously, she reached out a finger to touch the frozen surface of one of the cubes. There was no doubt that it was ice. She sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. _Breathe normally_, she thought. _Don't hyperventilate_. It was what Hugh had been trying to tell her ever since this strange, dark young man had come into the village. It was what glowed from Fred's face the morning he told her confidently that Daisy had come through. It was the look of hope and redemption in Sam Logan's eyes whenever he looked west down the little road…

Slowly Gillian rose and went into the garden to collect sprigs of mint. On the other side of the cottage she could hear the men grunting as they settled the steel base and began the process of assembling the walls of the greenhouse/workshop. The garden vibrated with life, with all the hidden, flourishing plants that should not have been there after twenty years of neglect, but were. Her hands full of fragrant mint, Gillian returned to the kitchen, found tall glasses and made the iced tea. As she stepped out the back door carrying the glasses on a tray, it occurred to her that having a wizard in the neighborhood might be a useful thing.

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	3. Chapter 3 – Of Bundimuns & Bowtruckles 1

**STORY NUMBER ONE: Of Bundimuns and Bowtruckles – Part 1**

_Monday, July 5, 1999_

The next morning, bright and early, envying Snape his new potions brewery, Harry reluctantly returned to work. It hadn't been an entirely wasted weekend since both on Saturday night and on Sunday, he and Ginny had been able to go out. It wasn't much, just dinner in a little restaurant in Ottery St. Catchpole, but it was good being alone together for a while. Indeed, a lot of what Harry had talked about was Snape, and it was Ginny who had insisted he return to Weetsmoor to patch things up on the Sunday, but that had led to the fascinating (for Ginny) story of the ride in Allsop's truck and the purchase of an honest-to-goodness prefabricated building. Ginny was already hinting that it might be acceptable to tell her where this tiny village was, and maybe even take her there someday – soon if possible.

The paperwork from Friday had not mysteriously vanished in two days, so Harry began the tedious process of recording and filing everything. This involved some careful attention and thought since each case had to be cross-referenced. The horse of Scythian gold, for example, required annotations on its file card that referred to Russia, Ukraine, and Central Asia, not to mention the British Museum in London, the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, and the New York Metropolitan Museum in… yes, New York. Then there were the cross-references to amulets, enchanted jewelry, wizarding grave goods, prehistoric magic and cross-cultural trade. It was not as easy as the description 'filing' made it sound.

A few new people had started working in Harry's department at the beginning of the summer, one of whom was Sally-Anne Perks. She was a dainty, shy girl, a muggle-born witch of Harry's year who had been arrested during the brief period of Voldemort's ascendency and had then returned to Hogwarts to complete her schooling a year late. Harry learned almost immediately that she was now seeing Justin Finch-Fletchley on a regular basis and could hear distant wedding bells. Harry was not totally convinced that Justin heard the same bells.

"Now what am I supposed to do with this?" Sally-Anne sighed, staring at a half-page incident report that came to her desk with the morning post.

"What is it?" Harry asked, not really interested.

"A sudden outbreak of magic in an area where we have no record of anyone but muggles. Shouldn't it go to the Improper Use of Magic Office?"

"Not necessarily," said Harry, his antennae up and his radar functioning. "It might be something easily explained. Our working files are for the last five years only. There may have been a traditional magical presence that's been reassumed. That would mean passive monitoring on our part, not improper use. What's the area?"

"Some place in Lancashire," Sally-Anne told him. "A village called Weetsmoor."

"Oh, really?" said Harry, affecting scant interest. "What kind of magic?"

"Routine household things. The monitors can't even differentiate."

"This is where you check," Harry said, going to one of the files and rifling through folders. "Here it is… Weetsmoor. Seems there was quite a pronounced level of magic up until twenty years ago. That's the height of Voldemort's first rise. Then it goes away, and now that he's gone, it comes back. Looks to me like a few families left, and are just now returning because it's safe again. All we have to do is keep an eye on it to be sure there's nothing more than domestic spells. Any minors?"

"No, all clear on that."

"Then it shouldn't be a problem. Just file it." Sally-Anne did exactly that, and Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. About half an hour later, he left for a restroom break that took him past the office of Gawain Robards, the now-confirmed head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Robards had Harry ushered in immediately.

"Are you sure," Robards said, raising a cautionary hand midway through Harry's account of the morning's report, "that you should be giving me the name of the village?"

"Why not?" Harry asked. "Everyone knows that's where his 'nephew Richard' lives."

"Not exactly," advised Robards with a smile. "Financial Services knows that's where 'Richard Snape' lives. Financial Services does not routinely pass on information about its clients to the Auror Office."

"So we're safe? At least for now?"

"Safe as can be," Robards smiled. "Under normal circumstances, it would take some powerful spells before one department of the Ministry of Magic started talking to another. I wouldn't worry about it."

Harry went back to his desk feeling much easier about the whole state of affairs.

On exactly the same Monday, Snape was up early cradling a mug of fresh coffee in his hands as he inspected his new work area in the light of the bright, rising sun and a night of relatively good sleep. It was a quite acceptable space, being some nine feet long, six and a half feet wide, and peaking to seven feet at the angled roof where there was a ventilation window that made it possible to use a charcoal brazier even with the door shut. The question now was what to stock in it.

Snape had a small pad of paper and a pencil, and started with the basics. First, of course, the brazier and a supply of wood and charcoal – not the pressed cakes used for barbecues, but the purer charcoal made by slow combustion of wood in a relatively oxygen free environment. Not every potion needed a fire so hot that charcoal was required, but for some things it was necessary.

Then there were the cauldrons, the pots, the bowls, the dishes, the knives and boards for chopping, the mortars and pestles, the spoons, beakers, tongs, sieves, and strainers for every imaginable type of potion, salve, lozenge, or poultice that could be manufactured by the brewer's art. It was with a sigh that Snape remembered the laboratories he'd put together at Croydon and Birmingham. Here in this tiny work space he would have to consider the bulk of every single item, but at least here he could practice his craft. Finished products, for the most part, could be stored in the cottage.

That brought Snape to thinking more about the cottage. Hagrid was right – it was cobbled together by spur-of-the-moment spells and wouldn't last two years. Snape had to think of how to make the construction less magic dependent, and therefore more permanent. It wasn't something he could put off either. Some potions needed to be stored away from magic, or at least in an environment where the magic was highly stable, an environment like Hogwarts.

It was in this frame of mind, more focused on solving the problems of the moment than he had been in more than four months, that Snape reentered his cottage to fix breakfast. He had not yet finished when he heard Gillian calling from the road. She'd ridden over on her bicycle.

"Anyone up yet?"

"In the kitchen," Snape called from a side window. "Make all the noise you want. Hagrid's still asleep upstairs, and breakfast's almost ready."

"Do you always start without him?" Gillian rolled her bicycle through the yard and propped it next to the door.

"Whenever I can. If you wait for Hagrid, your whole timetable is shot."

"Why do you think that is?" Gillian was in the kitchen now, pouring herself a cup of coffee and sniffing the appetizing smell of a small-scale English country breakfast. "Tomatoes and mushrooms? From this garden?"

"Indeed," replied Snape. "I wouldn't mind doing a full hunt breakfast. That grocer's a butcher, too, right? Does he carry things like kidneys?" He ignored the more psychological question about Hagrid.

"I wouldn't know," said Gillian. "I've always been afraid to prepare kidneys. I can whip up a fine haggis, though." She held out a small, wrapped package. "I brought you some cookies." What the package contained were some sweet, raised buns, a definitely Scottish cookie, rather than the flat dessert cakes that would have been familiar to an American.

"Excellent!" Snape cried. "Just the thing. Now, take your coffee and go shout at me from the front room so we can get Hagrid down here. If he doesn't come then, we can at least say we tried."

Their combined effort worked, and Hagrid was soon downstairs with the appetite of five grown men. Gillian, having already eaten, merely nibbled, but Hagrid absorbed both the breakfast and the buns. While they ate, Snape showed Gillian his list. "I need to know where to get these," he told her. "It has to be wood charcoal, and the pottery has to be unpainted and unglazed."

Gillian glanced over the list. "Unpainted and unglazed? You may have to order the beakers and pots. There's a place in Earby. For the dishes, could you use the little raised-edge things they put under flower pots? Those might be the cheapest. I haven't a clue where you could get cauldrons."

"I'll have Potter or Hagrid get those," said Snape. "Do you know, I'm rather looking forward to making medicines and tonics again."

The response from Gillian was a frown. "I think you need a license before you can prescribe or dispense medicines," she said. "I think it even applies to veterinary medicine. You may already have broken the law."

Snape bristled. "I'll have you know the only thing I did to that horse was an incantation. You can't need a license to sing to a horse!"

"Singing!" laughed Gillian. "You cured a horse of colic by singing?"

"You know," Snape said acidly, "your husband's a lot better at this than you are. An incantation is a chant. Magic, remember?"

"Sorry. I thought with all this talk of potions and the images we have of witches stirring cauldrons, that you always made some kind of preparation."

"The professor," Hagrid offered, "is one of them healers. Not every wizard is. A healer can do more with touch and words. He don't need so many potions."

"Can you teach Fred the words?"

"It don't work that way."

"Magic," Snape explained, "isn't in the words or the ingredients. It's in the person speaking or doing the mixing. These," he pulled out his wand, "don't produce the magic. They focus it. Most wizards need a lot of focus."

"I think I understand. This is going to take some getting used to."

Snape sneered. "Maybe you should concentrate on what you're better at. You seem to be quite a decent baker."

Before Gillian could react, Hagrid was shaking a sausage at Snape. "Ya got t' mind yer manners. That weren't very nice."

"It's her fault. I didn't ask her to come barging in here first thing in the morning!"

"Yes, ya did. 'N ya asked her t' make a lot o' noise t' wake me up. I heard ya. Now folks is just trying t' be friendly, 'n you got t' behave."

Snape leaned back in his chair, his arms across his chest. "You don't have to tell me what to do and what not to do. I'm perfectly capable of making my own friends, thank you."

"Really?" Hagrid stuffed a bun into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "I've knowed ya since ya was eleven, 'n I ain't seen none o' that talent yet. I'd advise ya t' take what ya can get."

"Really, gentlemen…" Gillian started.

"Gentle men?" Snape countered. "I think not. Hagrid has his moments, but they're few and far betw…"

"What you got t' understand, ma'am," Hagrid apologized, "is that I got to go back t' Hogwarts today, 'n we're having a snippy fit 'cause he don't want…"

"I am ecstatic about being left in peace!" cried Snape, leaning forward again. "Don't you pull that psycho-babble on me! Mrs. Latimer, this great lump here is the most officious, meddling, bothersome… Now you've done it. I've lost my appetite. I'm going to do the washing up." Snape stood and started clearing the table, Hagrid's dishes first.

"That's all right," said Hagrid. "Me 'n the lady'll move out o' yer way." He too rose. "Did ya notice the changes in the place? He's been busy."

"I did indeed," ventured Gillian, letting Hagrid steer her towards the front room. "It looks much cozier, more lived-in."

"Wonderful!" Snape called from the kitchen. "Especially since I don't live in that room at all!"

As Harry had already informed Gillian, Snape had rearranged the scant furniture in the front room. The sofa and chair now formed a group in front of the little fireplace and the few tables were more strategically placed. "I was thinking," Hagrid said, "that it might be nice with some light in the evening. Maybe a couple of them candles with the glass chimneys, or an oil lamp or two. 'N maybe a nice wallpaper. One o' them with little flowers all over it."

"Stripes might be nice," suggested Gillian.

"I have a wonderful idea," Snape offered, popping his head out the kitchen door. "What about a themed decor? Black wallpaper and black drapes embroidered with bats and black cats? I could get a cast-iron chandelier with tallow candles that dripped extraordinary shapes all over the floor. The sofa would have to be slip-covered, of course. Say… in black?"

"I'll be honest," said Gillian, "it sounds better than the little flowers on the wallpaper."

That brought Snape out of the kitchen. "I have to rebuild first," he admitted. "It really is jury-rigged with spells. I'll need posts, boards, laths, plaster…"

"You could use drywall," Gillian pointed out. "It's faster and cheaper than lath and plaster. It insulates better, too."

Snape remained ominously silent, leaving it to Hagrid to ask, "What's drywall?"

"It's a plasterboard. Like rigid plaster between sheets of paper. You buy it in big sheets and nail it to the studs. You can paint or paper it, depending on the quality of the board. Seriously, nobody uses laths anymore."

"This is disgusting," Snape grumbled, stomping across the room in an attitude of high dudgeon and dropping onto the sofa. "The only way to do this quickly is with real materials, a trained construction team, and magical assembly techniques. I can't use a wizard crew because they're not supposed to know anyone magical is here. I can't use a muggle crew because they're not supposed to know anyone magical is here. I could use a normal muggle crew, but they'd take months and cost a fortune. And where would I live meantime? It's hopeless, pointless, and ridiculous. I should have stayed in prison."

"It might not be that bad," Gillian insisted. "Check out Weetsmoor and the neighboring villages first. A lot of people do their own construction on things like sheds and sunhouses. You might have a lot of resources to draw on."

"Right," said Snape morosely. "As if they were all willing to put their lives on hold to help me."

"Fred Allsop is. And I'm sure there are others who'd love to invest in the future."

"It makes me nothing better than a charity case."

Gillian rested hands on hips and tapped her foot impatiently. "Quitter," she accused.

"There. More psycho-babble."

"It is not psycho-babble. It's the plain truth. It isn't even like you're quitting when you hit an obstacle. You haven't run into an obstacle yet, and you're already rolling up in a little ball like a frightened hedgehog. You could at least get to know some of these people around you. They're really quite nice, even to outsiders."

"Insiders always seem nice to other insiders." Snape drew his legs up to recline on his left side facing the barren fireplace. "Outsiders have a slightly different point of view."

"That's all you know. I'm more of an outsider than you are. You're at least recognized as coming from a local family!"

"That's right," chimed in Hagrid. "Turns out Mrs. Latimer here is from Scotland. From Glasgow."

"Scotland!" Snape spat out in shock. "Not another McGonagall! Please tell me, not another McGonagall!"

"Ross, thank you," sniffed Gillian. "University of Glasgow. Hugh was at Caledonian studying criminology. We were married last summer and came here. I'm at least as much of an outsider as you are, and the people here are nice to outsiders."

"Especially when their husband can slap them into jail."

"You've been here over two months. How many have you actually met?"

""Allsop and his mare. That Ridley person who's the greengrocer. You and the Peeler. It's quite enough, thank you."

"So you hardly know anyone."

"She's got ya there," chortled Hagrid. "You ain't exactly a social butterfly."

"Will you stop taking her side! You're supposed to be my friend!"

"I didn't think ya'd want someone as officious, meddling, and bothersome as me…"

"Aren't you about to leave for Hogwarts!"

"Not if y're going to lie here all day all of a dither."

"I am not… Mrs. Latimer, will you inform Hagrid that you and I are going into the village this morning to consult with various tradespeople and will not need his services?"

"Mr. Hagrid," Gillian repeated with a straight face. "Mr. Snape and I are going into the village this morning to consult with various tradespeople and will not need your services."

"Tha's all right, then," said Hagrid. "I'll be off to Hogwarts. Unless I hear different, of course, 'n then I'll be back here."

"Was that the truth?" Gillian asked after she'd watched Hagrid's bulk disapparate from the back garden. It was a disconcerting sight that she doubted she'd ever get used to.

"Was what the truth?" Snape responded from his unchanged position on the sofa.

"That you're ready and willing to come into the village and talk to people."

"I have a wonderful idea. Why don't you go, and we can tell Hagrid it was both of us?"

"That would be lying."

"You are just like McGonagall. It must have something to do with being Scottish. Same narrow, unyielding and impractical sense of rigid morality. She'd rather let a whole school of children die…"

"Tell me about this McGonagall person. She sounds fascinating."

"More like irritating. One of the many banes of my existence. No, I shall not tell you about the oh-so-prim-and-proper McGonagall." Both were silent for a moment, and then Snape continued, "We can't go into town together, you know, because you have a bicycle. You'll outdistance me in a few seconds. It will never work."

"I can always walk and push the bicycle."

"And I'll bet there aren't any tradespeople in the village besides the greengrocer anyway. Silly waste of time."

"True, but there are people who'll know people, and people who can tell you where to buy things, and telephones and directories."

"We never had a telephone," said Snape. "My dad couldn't afford one, and there wouldn't have been anyone to ring up anyway. Wizards don't use them."

"What do wizards use?"

"Owls. Nasty, smelly creatures whose droppings get in the scrambled eggs at mail call every morning. And they shed feathers and molt. Then if you don't tip them properly, they upchuck mouse guts all over your letters… What are you laughing at? It isn't funny!"

"I think it's hysterical! Do you have an owl?"

Snape finally sat up and looked around the room. "My grandmother had an owl named Nelson. I wonder what happened to him in the fire? I never thought to look for him. Poor creature. If he survived it, he could have used a home. Why didn't I ever think about Nelson? Gad, but I'm a selfish beast!"

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

"It's hard for adults in the middle of a tragedy to remember everything. Doubly hard for a teenager. Would he still be alive?"

"No. Owls only live about fifteen years, and he was already pretty old." Snape was silent, focused, remembering. The contrast between his teenage face and the time frame he was talking about was unnerving for Gillian, who was beginning to accept intellectually that Snape really was older than his appearance, but was having trouble with the affective part. Her thoughts were interrupted by his sudden rising to his feet. "We're supposed to be going into town," Snape said. "I have to do the washing up and then get some money"

Gillian helped clear the kitchen table and washed while Snape dried and put away. When they were through, she asked, "Do you have to go somewhere for the money? Mr. Potter yesterday had to go to London."

"I'm not buying the Taj Mahal!" Snape snapped at her. "I've got a pound or two upstairs. You stay down here, though, while I get it."

A few minutes later, the two of them were going out the gate into the road. Snape was suddenly entranced by the bicycle, an item which he claimed never to have ridden. "Show us how it works, then," he insisted.

Gillian mounted the bike and rode a ways down the road and back. Then she explained the gears and the brakes. Snape insisted on trying the bike. "I don't know if that's wise," Gillian responded. "Learning the balance can be tricky."

"It can't be worse than a broom," Snape countered, and Gillian was forced to concur.

The entire walk into town turned into an exercise in bicycle riding, with Snape wobbling, braking, tumbling, weaving, skidding, sliding, and finally racing all the way.

"I want one of those. Where can I buy it?"

"Slow down," Gillian cautioned, having gotten her bicycle back and now pushing it past the first of the village houses. The road at this point widened to accommodate vehicles going in two directions at once, and there was a narrow strip of curbed pavement on either side. The buildings were of stone of a soft brown color, like most eastern Lancashire towns, no new construction in this case to disturb its aura of timelessness. The black gash of the tarred street with its white center marking was the only reminder that this was, indeed, the twentieth century.

On their right, across the road, was a square, two-storied building whose double doors were set into the front projection of a narrow porch, and whose wide, walled yard contained headstones as well as flowers, the only external indications that this was a chapel, No misguided nineteenth century hand had 'modernized' or 'restored' it, and it remained in the simple, stalwart purity of its nonconformist origins.

Facing it, practically brushing Snape's left sleeve, was the most recent of the village's buildings, being just over a hundred and fifty years old. Its central hall lay parallel to the road, and the two-storied twin projections at either end, presenting proud gables to the street, formed an H shape. Snape knew from the noises he'd heard in the building's rear yard on his previous excursions into the village that this was a school house, though it was closed and silent now due to the summer break. Snape stopped to study the tan brickwork.

"How many students are there?" he asked out of professional curiosity.

"Thirty-seven last year," Gillian answered. "The younger ones double up, so there are four classes, but we only have two teachers. Parent volunteers assist with the lessons. When the children reach eleven, they're bussed down to Foulridge." She shook her head. "Next year there'll only be thirty-four."

"What's this?" Snape asked, his attention diverted from the school to the street in front of them. Up the road came a little group of young people, late teens and early twenties. In sharp contrast to the ancient houses, they presented a very modern spectacle, with heavy-soled hiking shoes, short pants, brightly colored jackets tied round their waists, and small packs on their backs, laughing and joking in the quiet morning.

"We're in the middle of an area where walking tours are popular," Gillian explained with a shrug. "There's an inn at the far end. They probably stayed the night there."

"They're heading for my house."

"They won't hurt anything. They're going up Weets Hill."

"Does this continue all year round? I thought I was going to have some privacy."

"How many have you seen go by in the two months you've been here? How private do you want it? We have to make a living, you know."

Snape conceded that the neighborhood wasn't too crowded. He and Gillian crossed a little cobbled lane where a glance to his left gave Snape a perfect, unspoiled glimpse of a seventeenth century village, some of the houses showing the natural brown stone, others plastered and whitewashed. He hadn't been in the mood to notice it when he'd been there before. A few more steps and they were in front of Ridley's grocery shop.

The narrowness of the pavement made display difficult, though Ridley did manage to have a few bins of fruit and vegetables out, a splash of color against the pale brown. He also had the shutters down. The building was a long one for the town, with a jettied upper story. Three windows flanked the center door on either side, and each window had a shutter hinged at the bottom so that when it was open it formed a little display counter right outside the window. Tins and packages were arranged in the windows to show what was on sale inside. The framed window sashes were raised to allow air and light into the interior. Gillian leaned her bicycle against the wall.

Inside, however, things were less peaceful. It wasn't just that the interior of the store was modern, with electric lighting, rows of shelving, and a freezer unit in one corner, or that the checkout area could scan a zebra code and take a bank card in payment. It was that one whole corner of the store had been disrupted, tins removed from the shelves and piled on the floor, packages shifted and squeezed into any available free space. A shelving unit was pulled away from the wall, and Bill Ridley was trying to look behind the paneling with an electric torch, Mrs. Ridley beside him to steady the shelves. A strange, musty smell filled the shop.

The sight of Gillian and Snape seemed to disconcert Ridley. "I'll be right with you," he called to them, then handed the torch to his wife and hurried to the back of the store to wash his hands at a little sink.

"Good morning, Helen," Gillian said to Mrs. Ridley. "What's happened? It smells like you may have a mold problem."

"We don't really know, dear," replied Mrs. Ridley, a rather plump matron of about sixty. "It came up over the weekend, I suppose, but we didn't notice anything until this morning. Bill is worried we may have another leaking pipe like that time three years ago, but we can't find a trace of it."

"I've called the county health people," Ridley added, "and someone's coming out from Nelson this morning. They may have tests they have to do, just in case, seeing as it's a food market."

"You won't have to close down?" Gillian was concerned. "Think of us having to go into Foulridge or Salterforth for a dozen eggs. Terrible."

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Snape," said Ridley. "You had a couple of visitors in this weekend, and Constable Latimer said it was all right to put a few things on account. I hope you don't mind. Potter was the name of the purchaser."

"Ah," sighed Snape, "the ubiquitous Potter. Yes, it's all right, as long as it was just bread, butter, eggs, and such like. I must confess to having eaten some of it, so I can't really refuse to pay for it. Tell me, though, do you carry kidneys and other organ meat?"

"I'll tell the truth," said Ridley, tying a huge butcher's apron around his middle, "most of what I trade in for eggs, poultry, and meat, I get from the local farmers. What I have depends on what they have. I'd say most folk drive into Colne or Nelson every week for their supplies. I get the convenience trade. Mrs. Wainwright, she keeps a fair number of chickens, so between her and the rest I always have eggs and some birds to roast or for the pot. Then there's quite a few have sheep, so I can get you good spring lamb. Ernie Hackett, he breeds pigs. That would be the best liver and kidney, but I'd have to arrange special to butcher one this time of year. If you like, I could order some beef kidney. It'd cost you less if it came part of a larger order."

"I'll consider it," said Snape.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a white car with a horizontal stripe painted on its side. It parked right in front of the shop, since there was no traffic on the street to interfere with. The county health officer came in and shook hands with Ridley, It didn't take more than a sniff. "I'd say you've got a problem with mold," he said. "We're going to have to run some tests."

"Don't mind me," said Snape. "I'll look around a bit. I've several things I need to get."

The county man poked about in the corner. "I'll wager you did some upgrading last winter," he said after a few minutes. "Better insulation against the cold, right?"

"Do you think that's the trouble?" asked Mrs. Ridley.

"Could be. The insulation that keeps the cold out can also keep heat and moisture in. It's been a hot week and a hotter weekend. Did you ever have a mold problem before? It can lie dormant waiting for just the right conditions and then, just like that, the place is crawling with fungus."

"It's that pipe from three years ago," growled Ridley. "I thought we were done with the fungus and mold."

"You're never done with it," said the county man. "Not until you've disinfected the whole area."

"What do we have to do?" Ridley was not yet resigned to his fate.

"I'll get someone in to test. We'll need air samples and swab samples. It depends on the type of mold and the concentration. If you have customers with allergies, anything could be a problem. If the mold's producing mycotoxins, it's a general health hazard and you'll have to close down while they clean out anything that's behind the walls. I'm afraid it could be expensive."

"When will I know?'

"After we analyze the samples."

"When can you do that?"

The health officer took out a pocket calendar and a notepad. "We're stretched a bit thin, but I think I could get someone up here by Thursday. The meat's secure in the locker, right? You might want to dispose of the raw fruit and vegetables. It might be no threat, but we don't want to take the chance. The packaged goods are safe." He stayed a few more minutes to look around, but he was a busy man and shortly got back in his car and drove away.

"Drat!" cried Ridley, slamming a fist down on the counter. "All that expense last winter insulating the place to save heating fuel, and it's all got to come out. They'll be ripping out all the walls."

"We're not sure, Bill" his wife soothed. "It might be a small thing after all." She tried, as he had done earlier, to peer with the torch behind the panels. Quite suddenly she let out a yelp and dropped the torch. "Eyes!" she cried. "Something's back there staring at me!"

"Don't tell me we've got rats, too!" shouted Ridley. His patience was getting stretched a bit thin and it was good there were no other customers in the shop. "Next thing you know, they'll be nibbling holes in the packages of breakfast flakes."

Mrs. Ridley was not an easily daunted woman. She picked up the torch and looked again. "They're still there," she told her husband. "Right on the panel. And there's another pair further down."

Snape moved suddenly to the section of paneling and slapped his hand noisily against it, causing Mrs. Ridley to jump back. "Did that chase the eyes away?" he asked, and it was an honest question, as if he were interested in the answer.

Picking up the torch for the second time, Mrs. Ridley checked. "They haven't moved," she informed him.

"Odd behavior for rats," Snape said. He stood quietly, contemplating the wall.

"He's right about that, Bill," Mrs. Ridley agreed. "You'd think rats would scurry away." She and her husband exchanged a glance. She went first. "You wouldn't know of something for the mold, would you? Something to fumigate the place with? Something 'special,' I mean."

"Something only I could make? Possibly, but it might not do any good. I could kill the mold, but if it's been producing mycotoxins, they'd still be around. You'd still have to tear everything apart to clean it out anyway. If it's nontoxic, I could help. You'd have to wait for the county tests to be sure of that. On the other hand, if it really does have eyes…" Snape took the torch from Mrs. Ridley and strained to see behind the paneling. "Definitely eyes. What color would you say that was, Mrs. Ridley?"

"Green," the grocer's wife replied.

"That's what I thought. If it is what I think it is, then I'd prefer not killing it. I don't understand why you'd have it here, though. In my home, possibly yes, but… here?"

"Are you telling me this is something that belongs to your people?" Ridley cried. "What's it doing in my store?"

"Don't look at me like that!" Snape bristled. "I haven't got a clue – a perfectly dull, ordinary muggle place like this! It shouldn't be here at all! But as long as it is, we may as well put it to use."

"What is it?" Gillian ventured.

"Green fungus with eyes sprouting behind the wallboards? It looks like bundimuns. They're nontoxic, so the tests on Thursday should be fine, but they secrete a kind of acidic slime that oozes down the walls and eats away at the foundations of any building they're in. You might not have trouble with the county health, but you will have trouble with the bundimuns. You'll have to tear the place apart to get rid of them."

"And you don't want me to kill them!" Ridley was getting a touch red under the collar.

"Not wholesale killing. I could use them." Snape looked around at the faces. "Well, that same secretion is valuable for making cleaning potions, isn't it? If I had a little laboratory colony of bundimuns, I could make… Here," he turned to Gillian, "you don't need a medical license to make cleansers, do you?"

"I don't think so," she said, laughing.

"Tell me what to do," said Ridley.

"Well, said Snape, "we have until Thursday before the health people come out. Let me think about this. I may come up with a way to remove the bundimuns – if they are bundimuns – or check the extent of the infestation if they're not…" He paused as a customer entered the shop, a man in his early sixties like Ridley, but the newcomer gestured to him to continue and began to examine the shelves.

"Be with you in a minute, Sam," Ridley said, then continued with Snape. "So, the county has to check. If it's got toxins, they tear down the walls. If it doesn't, you can help me clear it out. I've just got to be patient. I guess that's better than nothing. A good sight better if you can find out what it is."

Another man entered and stood with Sam, a man around forty who watched Snape closely and who seemed vaguely familiar to him. "They said you were here," he announced, and nodded emphatically once.

"Who said?" Snape asked.

"Them." The man gestured out the door. On the other side of the road stood a half dozen children, mostly boys around the ages of eight to ten, craning their necks to see inside the store. "They said the witch man was here."

"The little monsters," said Snape. "What shall I do to teach them to mind their own business? Turn them into rats and set them loose on Ridley's shelves?"

"They don't mean anything by it," broke in the man named Sam. "You're just the town wonder, that's all. We don't have much exciting happen here these days."

"But you used to, didn't you?" Snape looked at the other man. "I know you."

"Don't see why you would," the man answered, "though your father might."

"You fell off a roof."

The man smiled. "I did at that. And was saved by a fine lady and her grandson. My name's Bill Morley. And you're the image of the grandson."

"Ruptured spleen," Snape responded. "And you're right. Seventeen when she died. I wonder if that has something to do with it."

"To do with what, sir?" asked Morley.

"Nothing." Snape regarded the two men in the ensuing stillness. "Considering the witness of the children," he ventured, "are you here for Mr. Ridley, or for me?"

"You, sir," said Sam. "Not to put too fine a point on it, it's my apples."

"They can't be ready to harvest yet, it's only July."

"Of course not, but they're set and growing. The problem is, there's something else in there. It doesn't want us near."

"What does it look like?" Snape perched on the edge of a counter that had been cleared of whatever it had previously contained in order to accommodate the search for fungus.

"Kind of like a big praying mantis," said Sam. "Unless you're looking closely, it might be sticks from the tree. You get close, and it's like to poke your eyes out. I can't see that it's harmed the apples yet, but that's a major source of my income, and I don't want to take chances."

Snape turned towards Gillian. "This is unbelievable. First a shopkeeper has bundimuns, then a farmer describes bowtruckles. And yet this is supposed to be a perfectly normal, muggle community. Where are all these magical creatures coming from?"

"Do you really think they're magical?" Morley asked. "That'd be something."

"I think I really want to come out and look at these things in your trees," said Snape. "If they are bowtruckles, the wood from the tree could be wand quality. You don't often see wands made of apple wood, but it's a possibility."

"You'll help me?" said Sam. He hesitated. "I've got to tell you. That day, twenty years ago? I was there and helped set the fire. She never harmed me, not a day in my life or hers, but I burned her out. My name's Sam Logan, and I spent ten years in jail trying to figure out why I did it. I could use your help, but I don't want you to come unaware."

Snape crossed his arms over his chest, and for a moment Gillian thought he would turn the farmer down flat. He looked about to say something, then closed his eyes a moment in reflection. When he opened them, he appeared perfectly calm. "I know why you did it," he said with remarkable poise. "I may explain it to you some sane day. If I'd known a person had gone to jail, I might have spoken sooner. The fault lies elsewhere than with you."

"If that's the case, I'd be grateful to hear about it." Logan looked around the grocer's shop. "And my apples?"

"Mrs. Latimer," Snape said to Gillian, "I thank you for your kind attention this morning in telling me something about Weetsmoor. It seems my attention is required elsewhere. Would you excuse me if I took my leave of you and went to inspect Mr. Logan's trees? If they are what I think they are, they could be of use to me, as the bundimuns could be of use."

"By all means," said Gillian. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Is there a history of this village? It looks as if it were suspended in time, and yet beneath the veneer it is modern. But shouldn't there be a horde of property hunters paying a half million pounds for these houses? Or a movie directory setting up a camera in every lane? Instead I find pristine preservation disturbed only by walking tourists. I am totally confused."

"I'll do what I can," Gillian promised.

"You can't say fairer than that," Snape told her. "Now, Mr. Logan, show me your apple trees."

When Snape returned to his cottage from examining the trees in Logan's orchard, it seemed that he had more things to do than he could handle. The first priority was a container for the bundimuns should he manage to capture any and keep them alive. Not that 'capture' was the right word. Bundimuns were just a stationary fungus that you pulled off the wall, after which you had to thoroughly clean away any of the spores. It was keeping the bundimuns alive and healthy that was the problem. For that he'd have to construct something that would fool them into thinking they were inside a building without actually sacrificing a building to them. Something whose 'foundations' would collect the secretions… Snape began making a list of materials.

The bowtruckles were a different matter. It wasn't actually necessary to remove them from the apple trees. As it was, they were in fact beneficial to the apple trees, which had become infested with woodlice. These were not your ordinary woodlice – the little armadillo-like bugs that sometimes curl up into tiny balls and are sometimes called pillbugs – no, these were a subspecies of _Porcellio scaber_, one of the few to eat tree bark rather than just rotting wood. The bowtruckles were attracted by the woodlice and would certainly keep their numbers down with their long, twiggy fingers poking and prying the crustaceans from the trees. No, the problem with the bowtruckles was to find a way to distract them when it came time for Logan to harvest his apples.

The bowtruckles, thus, could wait. The bundimuns were more urgent. Snape did not want to lose a source of potions ingredients if the health inspectors decided the green fungi had to be eradicated. Poisoned, they were of no use to anyone.

As the evening progressed, however, Snape was less and less able to concentrate. He had not himself yet fully realized what the problem was, but for over two months the cottage, once welcomed as a refuge from the Ministry of Magic, had taken on the aspects of a prison. The villagers, interpreting his irascibility as the expression of his true wants and needs, had tended to leave him to his privacy. The human contact that he had despised most of his life, but which had in reality fended off the dark night of the soul, was removed.

It was too quiet. For a naturally private person at the end of a thirteen-hour workday that included unavoidable contact with approximately twenty adults and two hundred eighty teenagers, the few remaining hours of total silence were a lifeline. When the daily human contacts could never be counted on the fingers of more than one hand, and frequently were zero, the silence became a spiritual burden.

Then, it was too dark. Though it was summer, and the sun dipped below the hills around nine-thirty, to rise again at five, there were times when those intermediate hours were unrelieved by any spark of light. The town Snape had grown up in had streetlights – not very bright, and not always working, but there. At Hogwarts, the dim glow from the evening corridors could always be seen under the door, and clouds never obscured the vision of students studying at the pinnacle of the Astronomy Tower. Here, on this night, the sun set, then the quarter moon, and the perennial clouds of Britain blocked the stars. It was utterly dark.

This black night, the little cottage west of Weetsmoor was lit by the soft glow of candlelight as Snape paced back and forth in his front room. The bed upstairs, with its view of the barren wall, was inviting. A small part of him still wrestled with the problems of bundimuns and bowtruckles like a terrier with a bone. A larger part of him wanted to lie down, shut the world out, and drift forever in the dark cocoon of sleep. The anxieties of the last month crowded in on him – sharks in the water.

_What a fool I was to think that running away would solve anything! I've only made it worse. I had a chance to put an end to it, and I didn't take it. Now I'm in a prison just as bad as any the Ministry could have made for me._

_There's no such thing as the village potion maker anymore. County officials sample the air in village shops to test in metropolitan laboratories. The National Health sends assistants to the most isolated of cottages. You can't dispense anything without the proper license. And if I could evade the authorities, where am I to get the ingredients? I can grow half of it, but I can't grow armadillo bile. I can't buy it either. Any place I went, they'd recognize me. I could use polyjuice, but to make polyjuice I need boomslang skin and bicorn horn. I can't buy them without the polyjuice to disguise myself. It's a vicious circle._

Snape paused for the twentieth time in front of the pensieve Potter had brought from London. _If I separate again, I can get to the pensieve, but what then? There's no way to contact help. If the locals found me, there's no way they could contact help. I'd have to wait for Potter or Hagrid to remember I exist. The last time it took two months._

The fire in the kitchen stove had gone out long ago, but Snape hadn't noticed. Though he hadn't eaten since breakfast, he wasn't hungry. There was a time when Hagrid would have dragged him to the Great Hall, but Hagrid had more important things to think of now than has-been professors with picky stomachs.

_How could I ever have thought I had a chance at a normal life? What a fool! You can't change your destiny. It would have been better to have died than to spin out an empty existence. I should have died. I did die. Why am I even here? Potter! Couldn't leave well enough alone. Couldn't leave me well enough alone._

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_Tuesday, July 6, 1999 (moon in the last quarter)_

Hagrid arrived at the cottage around noon to find the yard empty, the greenhouse unchanged and bare, the kitchen fire cold, and Snape lying on his side in the upstairs back bedroom facing the wall. "Seems like we're back t' square one," he commented lightly, standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. "And don't pretend ya didn't hear me. I stomped all the way up the stairs just f'r you."

"Go away," Snape barked with considerable force given his passive appearance. "I don't want your pity."

"Good, 'cause I ain't giving ya none. Y're getting out o' that bed, 'n ya need a bath 'n a change o' clothes. I ain't living with you being fifteen all over again."

"You're not responsible for my personal hygiene!"

"Y're darn right I ain't! I'm responsible f'r my own comfort and peace o' mind."

"If I offend you, you can leave!"

"Not now, I can't. Y're getting out o' that bed if I got t' drag ya out. What's happened t' ya that I can't leave ya f'r a day without ya fall t' pieces? Did one o' them villagers threaten ya? I'll waste 'em if they did!"

Snape rolled over to face Hagrid. "You touch one of those people and I'll hex your beard into your nasal passages!" he snapped. "They happen to be very nice."

"I'm glad t' hear that. What ya got downstairs f'r lunch?"

"Don't you mean breakfast?" Snape swung his legs off the bed and sat up. He didn't reach for a dressing gown as he'd never undressed the night before.

"If I'd got here six hours ago I'da meant breakfast. Ya gonna sleep the day away as well as the night?"

"I got to bed late."

"An' y're getting up late. Too late. It ain't healthy. I'm drawing ya a bath. I cleaned everything this last weekend while you were sulking, so 's ya can dress neat and tidy. While y're washing up, I'll be downstairs fixing ya something t' eat. What did ya eat yesterday?"

"I don't remember."

"That sounds right. If ya didn't eat nothing, ya can't remember it." Hagrid turned and thumped into the bathroom where seconds later Snape could hear the sound of running water, pumped up from the well and magically heated. A few minutes later the sound of water stopped and Hagrid called from the stairs, "I wanta hear ya in there, or I'll come up 'n scrub yer back m'self!" Then he went downstairs to start the fire in the stove.

Snape sighed and stood up. He didn't want Hagrid bossing him around like he was still thirteen. On the other hand, the thought of a nice, hot bath without having to do any of the work was very tempting. Aside from the bed, the only furniture in the room was a wardrobe, from which Snape selected other clothing almost identical to what he was already wearing – a study in black. Hagrid had indeed cleaned all of it. Snape didn't know whether to be relieved or offended, but really he and Hagrid had known each other for too long under too many different circumstances for offense to last more than a moment. Snape gathered up the fresh clothes and went into the bathroom.

There were bubbles. Bubbles and lavender. Trust Hagrid to think of lavender. _Aroma therapy_, Snape thought derisively as he settled into the tub. _This is ridiculous_. Still, there are few things more conducive to mental well-being than a long soak in warm water. Snape lay back and let the heat seep into his ligaments and joints and actually relaxed for about twenty minutes. Then, unwilling to have Hagrid order him about further, he scrubbed from head to toe, dressed, and went downstairs still toweling his hair.

Hagrid affected to be surprised at how quickly Snape had finished. "I ain't hardly had a chance to start lunch."

"Right. Like you haven't been down here listening to me splash around up there." Snape threw the towel to one side and ran a combing spell through his hair. "If you really haven't started yet, I'd like to take over. I think I could eat what I prepare a lot more easily than I could eat what you prepare."

"I ain't saying y're wrong," said Hagrid, and turned the kitchen over to Snape.

"What made ya change yer mind about the people?" Hagrid asked as Snape lit the stove and started pulling out chopping boards, knives, spoons, bowls, pots, pans, and various items of food. Things, in fact, that Hagrid would never have thought of. Like a wire whisk.

"I didn't change about the people, I learned about the people. It wouldn't hurt you to do the same if you plan on coming here on a regular basis." Snape was now whisking together eggs, milk, salt, and pepper, preparatory to making a ham and cheese omelet.

"I didn't think I was welcome on a regular basis."

That was a risky thing for Hagrid to say, since he wasn't yet sure of Snape's reaction. Snape, indeed, used the cooking as a cover for his thought processes for several minutes, commenting on the heat of the stove, the quality of the milk, or the sufficiency of the portions, and fiddling with every item in the kitchen before coming anywhere near addressing Hagrid's comment. Hagrid just waited. They'd done this before.

"They're decent people just trying to make a living. It's not their fault the modern world is making things hard for them, or that the magical world's encroaching on their doorsteps," Snape finally said as he slipped a sheet of biscuits into the oven.

Ignoring the fact that Snape had said nothing about him, Hagrid picked up the thread. "Who's having a hard time, then? I hope it ain't that grocer fellow. He was mighty nice t' me."

"Well, actually, he may be one of them." Snape poured Hagrid a cup of the tea he'd been brewing. "His shop has a fungus, and if it's producing mycotoxins, the county health board will shut him down until it's removed. I think there are bundimuns there, but there may be other fungi as well. If I could find a way to retrieve and nurture the bundimuns, I could make cleaning products to sell to the locals, but do that before Thursday? I doubt it. I'd like to be able to help the grocer, too."

Hagrid smiled secretly to himself. "What would ya need t' be able t' get the bundimuns? Without tearing down the shop, I mean. Bundimuns can be powerful hard t' get rid of."

"I don't know. I can see them, with the help of a torch. Mr. Ridley upgraded recently and the bundimuns are all over the new paneling. I don't know how extensive it is. I suppose we could rip everything out, but the magical interference would destabilize the building. It is a seventeenth century structure, after all. I want to proceed with caution, but the county health people are coming on Thursday."

Snape had sat down, and he and Hagrid were helping themselves greedily to his food. In addition to the omelet, there were sausages, toast, biscuits, bacon, tomatoes… really like a hunt breakfast, certainly from Hagrid's point of view.

"Well," said Hagrid after several minutes, patting his stomach in contentment. "What if ya could get at 'em from the inside?"

"And how would I do that, Mr. Fix-It?"

"If ya was five inches tall, I bet ya could do it."

"But I'm not five inches tall, I'm five foot…" Snape stopped, staring at Hagrid. "I am five inches tall, aren't I? It's just the body that's five foot seven. All I need is…"

"All ya need's someone t' take ya out 'n someone t' put ya back in again. I could do that. It ain't that hard."

Snape's animated expression suddenly faded. "It's no good. I'd need something to keep them in. Dead, they're no use to me."

"What about the pleasure o' helping yer neighbors?"

"There is that, but I'd also like…" Snape put his fork and knife down. "I'd like to make something that they'd find useful. Something they'd buy. It isn't the money, Hagrid… It's the idea than I have something to contribute."

"I see," said Hagrid. "Saving a man's business ain't enough." When Snape slammed away from the table, stood, and strode toward the back door, Hagrid relented. "I know. Ya want t' be part o' things. A member o' the community. Would it help t' know a half dozen bundimuns could be kept alive for more 'n six weeks in a cardboard box?"

Snape stopped, but did not turn around. "How do you know?"

"Ya don't think I teach Care o' Magical Creatures f'r nothing, do ya?"

"A cardboard box?"

"A plain ol' cardboard box."

"Hagrid, would you like to accompany me into the village this afternoon to speak with Mr. Ridley?"

"Don't see why not," said Hagrid.

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_Tuesday, July 6, 1999 - that afternoon_

The walk into town was pleasant. Hagrid enjoyed the countryside, and Snape was always easier to deal with if he had a goal to take his mind off himself. Snape carried a bag containing the pensieve and the green soulstone flask.

It was the time of day when the walking tourists were up in the hills as far from human habitation as they could get, and the little village of Weetsmoor, with a major portion of its adult population out in other towns working, could bask in its pristine timelessness. Every now and again, especially as they got closer to the village, Hagrid and Snape caught the sound of rustling in the bushes along the road. It might have been large lizards… or it might have been the young of higher-level primates practicing the survival skills of concealment and reconnaissance. As an experiment, Snape briefly pulled out and flourished his wand. The rustling stopped. _Primates_, he thought.

"Ya gonna hex 'em, Professor?" asked Hagrid with a chuckle. He was speaking loudly enough for the bushes on the fringe of the road to hear.

"No," Snape sighed. "Not enough challenge in it. Besides, I imagine it's boring in the summer with no homework to do. If I actually see one of them, though, I'll make his ears grow just to teach him a lesson."

The effect of this exchange was to increase the rustling and add another sound suspiciously like whispering. Hagrid and Snape had not walked fifty feet before the rustling crescendoed, and an urchin popped onto the road in front of them. The urchin had messy brown hair and was dressed in generic denim pants, a yellow T-shirt, and nondescript, battered play shoes good for running, jumping, or climbing as long as they held together.

"What are you?" Snape cried in surprise, stopping dead in the road to stare at the apparition.

"Wally Hackett," said the urchin. "Can you really make my ears grow?"

"Do you want me to?" Snape asked. "Because if you do it takes half the fun out of it. For me at least."

"Oh," said Wally. From beside him in the bushes came a prompting whisper, _Say no_ which Walter ignored. "I don't know. Does it hurt?"

"No, not usually. Are you spying on us?"

The boy shook his head. Snape wondered if he was one of the little group of boys who'd informed Sam Logan of his presence in town the day before. This one looked about eight or nine. "We were just playing," Wally said.

"You were spying on me yesterday, too. How many of you are sneaking about in the bushes right now? Twenty?"

"Just Jack."

"Well, 'Just Jack' had better get his rear end out where we can see him or…"

Jack was already out before Snape could finish the sentence. He was taller than Wally, blond and blue-eyed, and dressed identically except his T-shirt was blue. "Or what?" he asked defiantly.

"Who are you?"

"Jack Morley."

Snape's eyes narrowed in speculation as he looked down on the two imps. "Right now," he said slowly, "I have a matter of business to discuss with Mr. Ridley, but if you stay out of my way and don't bother me, I'll meet you here on my way home and make your ears grow."

It was a deal, and the two boys abandoned Snape and Hagrid to rush back into the bushes and do whatever they had been doing before they spied the odd couple on the road – probably chasing rabbits.

"That was nice o' ya," Hagrid remarked as they came into the village proper and made their way the short distance to Ridley's grocery. "'T ain't every wizard 'd be friendly enough t' hex a boy's ears."

Both Ridley and his wife were in the store, which at that time of day was empty of customers. "Good afternoon, Mr. Snape, Mr. Hagrid," said Ridley. "What can I do for you?"

"I have a proposition for you," replied Snape, "that might benefit us both concerning your fungi. It's a little strange, though, and it might be easier if either or both of the Latimers were here. They've already seen this, and can assure you that it's harmless."

"I'll get them," said Mrs. Ridley, and went to the telephone.

While they waited for the Latimers, Snape and the Ridleys dealt with another problem – Hagrid. Hagrid had been there Saturday, but hadn't moved around the shop at all, and for a very good reason – he was too large. Now, however, he needed to be inside to take care of Snape in two places, and it was an impossible fit.

"I could magic some o' this stuff out of the way," he offered.

"Don't you touch that wand!" Snape snapped at him. "Do you want the Ministry down on us?"

"But I got t' use it t' remove and replace ya," Hagrid pointed out. "'N I bet ya'll use yers on them bundimuns. So what's the difference?"

"Pensieve spells don't interact with the outer world like relocation spells. And I don't even know if the Ministry can pick up 'essence of wand.' The point is, we don't do any more than is absolutely necessary. Mr. Ridley, do you have a back door?"

Ridley did, and he took Hagrid around to the back where he could enter the storeroom behind the counter, which doubled as a workroom. There was some space to maneuver in; not a lot, but some.

"This is going to be complicated." Snape sized up his surroundings. "I don't want to make you close the shop and turn away customers, but I do need a place to lie down for an extended period of time. It should be here, since Hagrid has to be with me to do this. Oh, and we also need a largish cardboard box. Was there anything else?" The last question was addressed to Hagrid.

"If ya had some scraps o' building material, that'd be nice. Some wood, a chunk o' plaster, a brick or two…"

There's always something like that lying around in a centuries-old building, and by the time Helen Ridley found a sleeping bag to lay out on the floor, and a big cardboard box, and Bill Ridley two bricks and some pieces of wood, the Latimers had arrived. Hugh was on duty and in uniform, though the sweater was a bit warm for the day, and the domed helmet made his head sweat.

"Ooo," said Gillian as she walk through the doorway into the back room and pointed at the pensieve now resting on a table, "are you going to do the shrinking trick again?"

"You've seen this before?" asked Mrs. Ridley. "He said you knew it wasn't dangerous."

"And you will notice," Snape added snidely, "that neither of the Ridleys has wired this place for hidden electronics, there are no microphones or speakers and, above all, no holographic projector."

Gillian blushed while Hugh pulled long faces behind her back. "I guess I was a bit skeptical, wasn't I?" she said.

"You were. I should also like to point out that: One – if I am a charlatan I will do the Ridleys no service, and Two – I am not asking for any payment except to be given some of the funguses I manage to retrieve."

"Fungi," said Hagrid. When Snape glared at him, he defended himself. "You said funguses."

"If you'd ever bothered to crack open a dictionary…" Snape began, then gave it up as requiring too much time. "In any case, since they're green they're probably lichens anyway. The wizarding world has always been a bit sloppy with its botanical classifications. Now. The first thing I need to do is lie down."

Once he was lying on his back on the flat sleeping bag, Snape took out his wand and held it in his right hand. The pensieve was next to his head. Hagrid knelt beside him, his own wand out as well. "Ya got t' tell me the spell," Hagrid reminded Snape. "I ain't never done this before."

"It's very easy," said Snape. "I'm going to lie back and concentrate, and then you touch the tip of your wand to my temple and then draw it slowly away until the whole strand comes free of my head. Put it into the pensieve. That's all. Since you're removing it from me instead of me doing it myself, the spell is Partior."

The room was silent as Snape settled into a relaxed position, wand held loosely at his side. He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Hagrid touched his temple with the wand, mumbled _"Partior!"_ and gently extracted the thread of silver mist. The instant the thread entered the pensieve, a five-inch-tall Snape appeared in the bowl.

"There," he said with some satisfaction, "easy as pie. Now take me to…" He didn't finish because Mrs. Ridley chose that moment to become faint-headed, and her husband had to help her into a chair.

Gillian bent down until her face was close to Snape's. "Let me guess. You forgot to tell her exactly what it was you were going to do."

"I didn't forget," Snape pouted. "You were the one who said 'shrink,' after all. I thought it was perfectly obvious."

"Only to those who already know what's going to happen. For the uninitiated, it requires quite an outstanding leap in logic." Gillian turned to watch Hugh and Ridley patting Mrs. Ridley's hands. Hugh had fetched a glass of water. "Is Helen going to be all right?" she asked.

"She'll be fine, won't you, girl?" Ridley held the glass for his wife to sip from. "She's never been totally convinced, you know. From Foulridge. Lots of folk there think we're a bit daft. Even while Mrs. Prince was still with us, Helen here only half accepted what she was."

"There," said Snape, arms folded across his chest and a wee note of triumph in his voice, "no damage done. Shall we do something about bundimuns?"

"What do we have to do?" Gillian asked.

"You can start by taking the pensieve – that's the basin I'm standing in," he added for Ridley's benefit, "over to the loose panel where we saw the bundimuns yesterday. I'll reconnoiter, and we can plan our actions based on what I discover."

It was quickly decided first that Hagrid had to stay in the back room, being too large to fit and too likely to startle any customers that might enter the shop; second that Hugh had to go with the pensieve so that the sight of a uniformed constable could be soothing to the same aforementioned customers; and third, that Ridley wouldn't miss this for the world, and so Gillian had to stay with Mrs. Ridley. Gillian insisted on a vote, but lost, at which point she told the men they were all sexist and deserved to fail. It did her no good.

Hugh carried the pensieve. He held it gingerly in both hands, as if afraid he might drop it and it would break. Ridley came behind with the electric torch. The shop was fortunately empty, so they could talk openly. The musty smell of the fungus was more pronounced than it had been the day before.

Setting the pensieve down next to the wall, Hugh stepped back to give Ridley room to shine the torch behind the paneling. Snape turned himself into a thought thread, and the slight mist oozed its way to the edge of the opening, transformed once more into a tiny person, and slipped into the space afforded by the studs. Because of the new drywall panels, there were no laths to get in his way.

A moment of silence was followed by Snape's voice. "Ugly little monsters, aren't they?"

"Is it what you expected, Mr. Snape?"

"Oh, yes. There are four of them here, rather large, but I see no trace of any other molds. Nor of any other bundimuns. It's probably a very new infestation. The question is, how to get them out with a minimum of magic. Hagrid's the animal expert. Ask him if he thinks a stinging hex would detach them without killing them."

The question was relayed to Hagrid, whose response was that a stinging hex might do the trick. The next bit took some planning as Snape in his vaporous form could not handle the bundimuns, and he preferred not using a levitation spell if at all possible. After a quarter of an hour trying different items, Hugh held the torch while Ridley pushed a wide-bladed shovel behind the wall. It had to go in at an angle, but it might be enough to extract a stunned bundimun. The cardboard box was next to him.

Snape carefully directed the positioning of the shovel, then took careful aim and zapped the first bundimun with a nonverbal hex. The only sound was the soft plop of it hitting the shovel. "Take it out," Snape ordered, and the shovel was eased from behind the wall.

"You're right," Ridley commented as he tipped the bundimun into the box. "It's ugly. Will it try to crawl out?"

"It's a fungus. At best, it's a lichen," Snape replied. "It'll find food, it'll eat, it doesn't care. Get that shovel back in here."

One by one, the remaining three bundimuns were transferred to the box. By this time Mrs. Ridley had fully recovered and was staffing the counter in case a customer entered, while Gillian was observing the proceedings with Hugh. When all four bundimuns were enclosed in cardboard, she picked the box up and took it back to Hagrid. The smell, while strong and unpleasant, was not overpoweringly so.

"I'm going to look around a bit," Snape called from the wall, "just to check if there are any more, or if there's any other kind of fungus in here. It shouldn't take long."

Hagrid took the bundimuns outside where he clucked over them like a mother hen. So engrossed was he that he hadn't noticed that half an hour had passed until he heard Gillian's voice. "Hagrid? Could you come here please? The professor seems ill."

Hagrid lumbered into the storeroom as fast as he could go. The pensieve and the other people were already there. Snape was not standing above the pensieve, rather a small, gray fog floated in it. Hagrid touched the fog with his wand, and Snape appeared, not standing but sitting in a little heap, his head in his hands.

"What happened," Hagrid demanded.

"I don't know," Snape said with an effort. "Maybe I got too far from the pensieve. I suddenly felt very weak… faint… washed out. Getting out… was a struggle. Put me back, Hagrid. Put me back now."

The figure dissolved into mist, and Hagrid picked the thread up on his wand and held it to the temple of the unconscious body. The mist eased back into the head, but there was little change in the still form. "Professor," Hagrid urged, "Professor, wake up."

Snape's eyelids opened slowly. He seemed very tired. "What's wrong, Hagrid?" he whimpered. "What's happening?"

"I'm getting Pomfrey!"

"You can't… She doesn't know I'm here."

"I'm getting Harry, then!" Hagrid was up and out the door in an instant, wand in hand. There was an explosive 'pop,' as he apparated to the Ministry of Magic, leaving the Latimers and Ridleys to tend to Snape.

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	4. Chapter 4 – Of Bundimuns & Bowtruckles 2

**STORY NUMBER ONE: Of Bundimuns and Bowtruckles – Part 2**

In London, Harry and Sally-Anne Perks were already thinking about Weetsmoor, primarily because of the parchment memo Sally-Anne was holding up for Harry to see. "It's the same village as yesterday, but the magic signature is one I never saw before. First there's some kind of memory spell, and then a bit later there are four little blips, like someone was hiccupping magic. Little tiny things – I can't read it at all."

Harry glanced over the report. "Since Hopkirk's office didn't think it was anything to worry about, I don't think we have to worry either. Just file it."

Sally-Anne was aghast. "Aren't you the slightest bit curious?"

"Nope," Harry replied. "I have too much work on my desk to be curious. It's nothing. After you've been here a few months, you'll have seen so many things like that, you'll realize it's routine. File it."

An inter-office paper plane swished through the door and came to a perfect three-point landing on Harry's desk. "It's from Robards," he told Sally-Anne after glancing at the contents. "I may be gone for a while. Drat! And just when I thought I might have some time to clear up this mess!" He picked up his jacket and headed for Robards's office where Hagrid was waiting. Together they apparated back to Weetsmoor.

The first thing Harry saw as he entered Ridley's storeroom was the concerned look on the faces of the four muggles. He didn't know the older woman, but he suspected she was Ridley's wife. Then he looked down at Snape and was shocked. The young face was pale, but with a waxy pallor similar to that of the newly dead after the battle of Hogwarts. Snape's eyes were half closed, and his breath rasped at every intake. The body was still, hands limp at its sides.

"He were checking out bundimuns behind the walls," Hagrid explained quickly. "I got him into the pensieve, and then he ups and walks around on his own. He were checking the whole store."

Harry immediately remembered the gradual progress pensieve Snape had made back in the rooms at Avery Place, how it had taken several stages to be able to apparate into Harry's bedroom. He couldn't recall if that Snape had ever been far from…

"The green coffin," Harry told Hagrid. "Please tell me you were smart enough to bring the soulstone with you."

"Got it right here," Hagrid cried, pulling the flask from its bag. "Will it work? It's been broke and fixed, ya know."

"It should," said Harry. "It's the material more than the shape, and that hasn't changed." He knelt next to Snape. "Collect yourself. I'm going to put you back into the green flask. I think your problem is that you've been away from it for too long. It made you strong once; it should be able to make you strong again."

Snape closed his eyes fully and weakly nodded. Harry gently drew the thought thread from Snape's head, and placed it in the soulstone coffin. Then he stoppered it and sat back on his heels.

"What do we do now?" Hugh asked.

"We wait," said Harry.

The wait took three hours. They moved flask and pensieve to the table and sat talking quietly in chairs, some brought from other parts of the building. Hagrid sat on the floor, not wanting to risk a strengthening spell on any of the chairs after Harry told him about Sally-Anne's report. Customers began coming into the grocery in the time between arriving home from work and fixing dinner. Ridley and his wife took turns serving them. Hugh had already left to make his normal rounds. Gillian stayed with Harry and Hagrid.

At a quarter to six, the stopper of the flask eased its way out of the neck and dropped to the table top. The familiar silver thread spilled out of the flask and into the pensieve, and Snape stood, small and straight, in front of them again. He did not look happy.

"What did you put me in there for?" he demanded of Harry.

"Oddly enough, I was trying to save your butt again," Harry answered with a slight smile. "Look! It worked."

"I don't suppose it ever occurred to you that I might not want to go in there."

"You used to live in there!"

"Well I don't live in there now! It was… unpleasant." There was no doubt that Snape was agitated. He fidgeted with his wand and refused to look any of them in the eyes.

"Why?" Harry asked. "What's in… Oh, I know. You stored some memories in there. I guess they were ones you didn't want to see. I'm sorry. There wasn't time to do anything about it."

"Think more carefully next time. Now put me back in that thing." Snape motioned with his wand at the body.

"Right away, Professor." Harry grinned. "And by the way, you're welcome."

"Humph," said Snape, turning himself back into mist. When body and personality were again united, Harry and Ridley helped Snape to his feet. He seemed quite steady and, except for being upset about his experience in the flask, perfectly normal. Normal being a relative word. He turned to Ridley. "Any sign that we were successful?"

"To tell the truth, there is," Ridley answered. "Most of the musty smell's gone. I didn't want to press you, but as you look better now, what should me and the wife do?"

"There are no other bundimuns and no sign of any other fungus that I can see. I'd suggest using something with a long handle to wash the area where they were with plain soap and water, unless Hagrid knows of something better. That should take care of it."

Hagrid didn't know of anything better, and so the three, Harry, Snape, and Hagrid, took their leave of Gillian and the Ridleys and started back down the narrow road to Snape's house carrying two bags now, plus the box of bundimuns. One contained the flask and pensieve. The other held a ready-prepared meal that Mrs. Ridley had packed for them to spare Snape the trouble of cooking dinner. None of the three talked much. The road was as deserted as it had been in the early afternoon, most of the walking tourists and most of the residents being inside inn and home getting ready for dinner.

There were two residents, however, who were not yet home for dinner, though they probably ought to have been. Jack Morley and Wally Hackett popped out of the bushes shortly before the trio reached Snape's hut. They clearly held mixed emotions – partly irritation that it had taken so long, and partly relief that their quarry had finally shown up.

"We're here," Jack announced, somewhat unnecessarily. "Who's he?" He pointed at Harry.

"He's an acquaintance of mine," Snape replied, drawing his wand. "His name's Potter."

"Is he… one, too?"

"Yes, he is. But don't go telling anyone because he likes to think it's a secret. Who do I hex first?"

"Him." Jack pointed at his younger companion. Then, to defend himself against a charge of timidity added, "He asked first."

Without a sound, Snape waved his wand, and Wally's ears began to grow, as did Jack's eyes. Wally reached a tentative hand to touch his enlarged appendages, then said, "Now do him," and Snape obliged. There were a few moments of explorative ear-pulling, and then ears were returned to normal and Jack and Wally sent packing off to supper.

At the cottage, Harry went into the kitchen to put together the meal Mrs. Ridley had given them while Snape went into the front room. A few minutes later, Hagrid sought out Harry. "We may have a problem," he said.

Harry went into the front room to find Snape removing a memory from his head and depositing it in the flask. He'd apparently already done this with a large number of them. Snape glanced over at Harry's disapproving face. "I don't want to think about them," he said, and passed Harry to climb the stairs to his bedroom.

Hagrid went up after him. Harry listened for a moment to the voices.

"I put yer bundimuns in the greenhouse. They seem real contented. Practically purring."

"Fine. Now you can go away and leave me alone."

"Ain't ya gonna try none o' that food Mrs. Ridley gave us? Smells real good. 'N ya ain't had nothing to eat since…"

"Get out of here and leave me alone!"

"Nope. Ain't going. I'll just sit here 'n be quiet a bit, but ya been poorly today 'n I ain't leaving ya."

"Great. A mountain for a nursemaid."

Harry left the foot of the stairs and went into the front room. There on the mantel, temptingly beautiful, was the emerald flask with the memories that Snape didn't want to see. There on the table, beckoning, was the pensieve. It was an ethical balancing act, Snape's privacy against Harry's curiosity. Telling himself that he would be better able to help Snape if he knew what the problem was, Harry took the flask and the pensieve out into the garden. Away from the house, shielded by the trees, he found an old, picturesque trunk, flat and cut at a level so that if he knelt next to it he could put his face into the basin. He fished several memories out of the green coffin and entered one of them…

…It was a memory he'd seen once before, though at the time he'd been too rushed to study it. This time he saw it from the beginning, where before he'd seen only a snippet. It was night, and young Severus was climbing the stairs at Hogwarts, glancing nervously around in a way that meant it was after curfew. By the time he reached the seventh floor, he was trembling. _Alone and so close to the enemy so soon after that attack. It took guts to make that journey_, Harry thought.

As Severus approached the Fat Lady, both he and Harry heard a small noise to the right, and Severus slipped into the shadow of a suit of armor. The noise was Mary Macdonald separating her face from the face of a Ravenclaw boy. They whispered 'good night' and snuck each back to the proper dormitory. Before Mary reached the Fat Lady, Severus whispered 'Macdonald' in a low hiss meant to carry only to her ears. She turned, expecting to see him, a small sneer marring her features.

_Or is it a small smile?_ Harry wondered. It was hard to tell – a forced smile, a sneer. He had no doubt what Severus saw; even Harry's first impression had been a sneer.

"That was an entertaining show this afternoon," Mary said. "Are you up here for a repeat performance. I can get James and Sirius."

Severus's face closed, cold and unresponsive. "I need to talk to Lily," he said, advancing from the shadows. "I have to explain something."

"You certainly do," said Mary, "but I don't think Lily wants to talk to you."

"Tell her I'll stay here until she comes out. I'll stay all night if necessary."

"I'm going in now," Mary told him. "Maybe I'll tell her, and maybe I won't. Maybe I'll tell Sirius instead. What then?"

"Then I get beaten up. I'll take the chance. Please, tell Lily I'm here."

The portrait hole closed behind Mary and Severus waited, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot and twisting his long fingers. After a long while, the portrait opened and Lily came out, ready for bed or maybe even gotten out of bed, clad in a dressing gown that she'd thrown over her pajamas.

"I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here."

"I… was. I would have… done. I never meant to call you… mudblood, it just –"

She wouldn't let him talk. She refused to hear any explanation. Her face hard and her voice cold, Lily put her own ending onto Severus's sentence. "Slipped out?"

This time Harry watched Severus. His face said that this was not what he'd intended to say, but Lily could not be stopped. Severus was stammering, and she was faster and more articulate. "It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends –"

Severus opened his mouth to respond, but she was faster. "– you see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?"

The stunned look on Severus's face told Harry that the accusation had taken him completely by surprise. He opened his mouth again, then closed it, not knowing what to say.

Lily plowed on, oblivious to anything but her own viewpoint. "I can't pretend anymore. You've chosen your way. I've chosen mine.

Severus spoke then, the charge that he'd already decided his future having sparked resentment in him. "No! Listen! I didn't mean –"

What Severus did or didn't mean would never be known, for once again Lily cut him sharply off, substituting her own version of the truth for anything he might have wanted to say. " – to call me mudblood?" Severus shook his head, but she ignored him. "But you call everyone of my birth mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?"

It was another accusation that took him by surprise, but even in the seconds while he struggled for some kind of response, she turned and left him. Severus stood staring blankly at the portrait. No explanation had been given because none had been permitted.

Severus backed away from the Fat Lady, his face beginning to twist into a rage he fought to control. _I've seen this before_, Harry realized. _He was like this when he destroyed that memory!_

"Witch!" Severus screamed, wand out, shooting multicolored spells that bounced off the walls. "We used to talk! You used to let me talk!" Around him the air shimmered, pictures banged against the stone, banners whipped as in a hurricane. "When did you hear me call anyone mudblood? When did anyone ever hear…? They're lying to you about me and you listen to them! Listen to me, too! Listen to me!" Armor crashed around him, the banners rent into shreds, figures fled from the swaying portraits in terror as the whirlwind mounted. Even Harry retreated from the building storm…

Then, suddenly, a quiet voice pierced the violent tempest. "Severus? Master Snape, are you all right?" Severus wheeled, his wand now pointing directly into Dumbledore's face. Dumbledore affected not to notice it. "I detected a bit of a disturbance. You are upset. I am not surprised, given the events of this afternoon. I take it Miss Evans is also upset and needs to be given time to allow her better self to resurface."

The storm was dwindling, leaving Severus breathing heavily and staring at Dumbledore, who continued talking as if all were calm and in order. "I must confess I would not ordinarily expect to find you so far above the dungeons at this time of night. Is it after curfew? I do believe it is. It is somewhat unusual for you to break a rule. We should not be standing here, however. May I invite you to my office? You are sixteen and a half now, no? Perhaps a small glass of elf-made wine, for medicinal reasons, of course."

"Headmaster," Severus said at last, lowering his wand.

"Yes?" replied Dumbledore and paused, waiting for Severus to continue.

"Am I a bad person?"

Dumbledore tilted his head to one side, affection and compassion in his face and voice. "Of course not. Confused sometimes, but not bad."

"Why do they think I am? Why does Lily think I am?"

"We live in bad times. It tends to limit people's vision to black and white. Us and them. No grays, and no sitting on the sidelines. Come have a glass of wine – or butterbeer if you prefer. I shall then escort you back to Slytherin so the prefects know you have not violated any regulations. Bungy?"

A house-elf appeared, bowing.

"Bungy, would you see that all this disturbance is cleared away?" As the house-elf straightened the chaos, Dumbledore steered Severus to his office, and Harry left the pensieve.

_It's my mother. He doesn't want to remember my mother, and I can't really be surprised because she didn't treat him well at all. She wouldn't let him explain. She wouldn't let him get a word in edgewise. It wasn't fair at all. Of course she was upset by what he called her. But didn't he have more reason to be upset for what they did to him? She didn't say one word about what happened to him, just what happened to her. That was pretty selfish. Come to think of it, when Dad hoisted him up in the air, she was trying not to laugh. Was Dumbledore right, and she cooled off after a while? They had two more years left and must have been in the same classes. They were in NEWT Potions together in sixth year! When I showed Slughorn that bezoar, it reminded him of my mother, who must have done the same thing! But it was Snape who wrote in his book – Just shove a bezoar down their throats. He told her to do it! They did get together again! Until my Dad came along in seventh year…_

Harry didn't feel like looking at any more of the memories of his mother. He had a pretty good idea why they were causing Snape to be even more depressed. He sighed, picked up the flask and the pensieve, and returned to the cottage where Hagrid was still trying to get Snape to come downstairs and eat.

Slowly, reluctantly, Harry mounted the stairs. "Go on down," he told Hagrid. "Start getting dinner ready. I need to talk to him, and if in the end he won't eat, at least I will."

Hagrid nodded and left the bedroom. Harry Accioed a chair and sat by the bed where Snape again had his face to the wall. "You didn't like her, did you?" he said calmly. "At least sometimes."

There was total silence from the rigid figure on the bed. Harry let it draw out until Snape finally said, "Who might you be talking about?"

"My mother. Lily Evans. You knew that, of course. That's why you put your memories of her in the flask."

"You have no right to look at what's in that flask. It's private."

"Not really. It's my flask. I bought it, and anything in it belongs to me."

"You gave it to me."

"When did I do that?" Harry leaned back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left knee.

"After it was fixed. You brought the two of them here, and you gave them to me. They're not yours, they're mine. You have no right to look at them."

"But I did. Now what?"

"Forget what you saw. They're my memories, not yours."

"But it's my mother. You can't ask me to forget my mother. Could you forget your mother?"

"I don't want to forget my mother. I want to forget yours."

"You told Dumbledore you loved my mother."

"Who told you that?"

"You did. It was in the memories you wanted me to take when you were dying."

Snape seemed to shrink on the bed, his shoulders hunching up around his neck. "I don't remember that," he said.

"Of course you don't," said Harry. "You put it in the flask with all the other ones you don't want to remember, but you know it's true."

"It's true that I told Dumbledore. What I told Dumbledore wasn't true."

"I can't believe that somewhere down deep inside you, you didn't love her. How else could you have done what you…"

Snape rolled over so that he was facing Harry, his face twisted with emotion, but whether it was rage or anguish was impossible to tell. "Don't you understand what I did?" he spat at Harry. "Don't you understand? I locked everything about her behind the doors and deceived myself for nearly two decades. Potter, your mother was an evil, manipulative witch! She used me for her own purposes, toyed with me as some kind of self-aggrandizing game, and dropped me into the wolf pit when I no longer satisfied her ego. Potter! Look at me! Listen to me! I hate your mother!"

For an instant the true Gryffindor ire exploded in Harry, and he wanted to rearrange Snape's face with a fist. He controlled it though, telling himself he didn't know everything, he hadn't seen everything. When he spoke, his voice was calm. "Okay. You hated her. She asked impossible things of you, and she wouldn't support you when you needed her. I guess you have a right to hate her."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Aren't you going to fight me about this? Aren't you going to defend her? She was your mother, after all."

"Why?" Harry countered. "From what I could see, you were right. She really did treat you rather badly. It was awkward watching it."

"She used me from the beginning. She used me so she could feel superior to Petunia."

"I'm not going to argue with you about that. That was kind of obvious."

Swinging his legs off the bed, Snape sat up. "I'm right, then? I have a right to feel the way I do?"

"I can't fight you on this," Harry admitted. "I saw the memories, some of them. There's more than one side."

"Hagrid!" Snape cried, rising and striding toward the door. "Where's that dinner? Are you going to let us all starve?"

Dinner could hardly be called a success, since the food was excellent but the company was not. Harry wanted to talk about the memories in the flask, Hagrid wanted to stick to safe generalities, and Snape didn't want to talk at all. Shepherd's pie, an asparagus pudding, chopped cabbage salad, and a strawberry tart all were consumed in relative silence, and then Snape rose abruptly and headed for the rear door.

"Where're you going?" Hagrid demanded.

"Bundimuns," Snape replied, vanishing from view.

Hagrid stayed in the kitchen to do the washing up, while Harry followed Snape out into the garden. The cardboard box with the bundimuns had been placed on one of the shelves in the little greenhouse. Snape opened the door and stood looking down into it.

"They haven't escaped, have they?" Harry asked, coming up behind him.

Snape gave a sniff of derision. "They're a lower organism, Potter. A fungus. A lichen. Have you ever seen a mushroom run? Crawl? Slither? Move one fraction of a millimeter in any direction?"

"But they have eyes."

"I see. And you, I suppose, run the hundred meter dash on your eyeballs. Eyes are not a motor appendage. You must be thinking with your Y chromosome."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"The one you got from your father. James was weak on magical creatures, too."

"Don't you mean herbology?"

"Oddly enough, Potter, this malodorous blob is more closely related to you than it is to moss. There are a few things that are neither plant nor animal. The green part is plant, of course. Algae. It's a symbiotic relationship. That's why it's really a lichen. Fungus plus algae."

Snape held the box lid so that only a little light entered the interior. Harry stood on tiptoe to peek past his shoulder. "I thought it was just a green fungus," he observed.

"What makes the color green in nature?" Snape said. "Chlorophyll. It's only found in plants. There are no green fungi. Only a wizard would look at something green and call it a fungus."

"Why didn't Professor Sprout ever tell us that?"

"For the same reason you write with a quill on parchment and none of your friends can use a telephone. It isn't just the muggles that the Statute of Secrecy keeps in the dark; ever since the Statute was instituted, we've been locked in 1689. The only anomaly is the presence of a steam locomotive." Snape's eyes narrowed. "I'll bet Dumbledore finagled that one – he probably told the Board of Governors it was invented by Sir Isaac Newton. They certainly would not know the difference."

As he talked, Snape inspected the interior and underside of the box. The bundimuns had already deposited some of their secretions in the porous material, and dark stains marred the cardboard bottom. "Go ask Hagrid to give you the biggest glass baking dish in the kitchen," Snape told Harry. "This stuff is useless if it's contaminated."

By the time Harry got back with the rectangular glass dish, Snape had taken a piece of wire mesh to replace the bottom of the box and had assembled five small, clean flower pots. He placed the pots in the baking dish, four at the corners and one in the middle, laid the wire mesh on top of it, arranged the bundimuns and their building scrap on the mesh, and covered all with the cardboard box.

"There," he said contentedly when it was done, "the secretion should drip down into the glass dish where I can collect it easily. I'll have Hagrid check it tomorrow. It will certainly do as a temporary habitat, and may even work permanently."

"What do you use it for?" Harry asked. Though he found the fixed stares of the bundimuns somewhat disconcerting, the entire operation had held his attention for its ingenuity.

"Cleaning agents," Snape replied. "especially useful against old, built-up grime. The best part is, you don't have to be magical to use it. Non-toxic, non-abrasive, an excellent fungicide – ironic that a semi-fungus would secrete a fungicide…"

"Are we done?"

"For the evening."

"Good, because I'd kind of like to talk." Harry braced himself for the explosion he was sure was coming.

Snape drew away a little, his eyes narrow, tilting his head back just enough so that the angle gave him an air of supercilious disdain. "I can hardly prevent you from talking," he said. "Please do not assume, however, that I shall be listening."

It was an epiphany for Harry. The last time his parents had seen Snape, this was the face they'd encountered – young, pale, wary and defensive, bitter and resentful, already moving down the slippery path that would lead him to the inner circle of Voldemort's followers, there to be forged into the deadliest weapon in Dumbledore's arsenal – a slender, murderous stiletto, an assassin's blade that could find its opponent's heart before the victim was even aware he'd been struck.

"Actually," Harry said calmly, "I was hoping to do most of the listening."

"It's going to be a quiet evening," Snape rejoined, then turned abruptly and walked across the garden into the cottage.

Hagrid had tea ready. "Tell me about Dumbledore," Harry asked him, slipping into a chair at the kitchen table while Snape went into the front room where, as Harry was well aware, he could listen without seeming to listen.

"T ain't much t' tell as ya don't already know," said Hagrid, pouring a cup of tea to which Harry added milk and sugar. "Ya want a cuppa?" Hagrid called to Snape, receiving a noncommittal sound in reply that he interpreted as a 'yes.' He took another cup into the front room and returned. "I didn't know the Professor 'til I were a young student m'self, so I can't really say aught about him before that. He were always kind and fair t' me."

"That's because you're a Gryffindor!" Snape called from the front room.

"Ya ain't part o' this conversation!" Hagrid called back. "Ya opted out!"

"It's my house! I'll do what I want!"

Hagrid winked at Harry. "I ain't gonna shout no more!" he replied to Snape. "If ya wanna eavesdrop, ya gotta come closer!" He then lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. "Them Slytherins is always crying 'foul.' Bunch o' crybabies if ya ask me,"

"Oh yeah!" Snape was leaning against the kitchen door jamb. "Ask Flitwick! Even you would have to admit that Richard Turpin was a much better choice for Head Boy than Pompous Percy. Charlie at least had the good sense to turn it down, but I swear Dumbledore would've made even Fred or George Head Boy and be damned with everyone else's opinion if he'd managed to find a way to tell them apart. It wouldn't have been the first time the Head Delinquent became the Head Boy by jumping over the prefects. And do you have any idea how long it took me and Flitwick to calm McGonagall down over the Ronald business? Dumbledore was a disaster at personnel management!"

"What Ronald business?" Harry blurted out, suddenly keenly interested on a totally different level.

"Weasley," Snape explained. "He became Gryffindor prefect in your fifth year. I'm sure you must have noticed."

"I did." Harry nodded glumly. "Dumbledore thought I had too many other problems to load me with that one, too." He stared morosely into his rapidly cooling tea.

"Ha!" Snape spat out with a malicious smirk. "While you were exchanging these confidences with the Headmaster, did he happen to mention that it wasn't his decision to make?"

Harry's head snapped up. "What are you talking about? I thought…"

"Prefects are chosen by the Heads of house. You need someone who's reasonably intelligent, understands the rules, and is generally well-liked and respected by the whole house and not just within their year. That's how Malfoy beat out Zabini, who's an arrogant little pr…"

"You mean Professor McGonagall didn't want Ron?" Even though the pain of Ron's preferment had ebbed long ago, there was enough of left for Harry to find himself gratified by the news. He even started to smile.

"Of course not! What kind of Head of house do you think McGonagall is?" Snape had by now entered the kitchen and was pouring himself a fresh cup of tea. "She wanted Dean Thomas."

In the silence that followed, Harry could feel Hagrid's sympathy exuding in waves, while Snape's smugness just begged for a right uppercut to the jaw. His own ego deflating by the second, Harry managed to bring himself to ask the question. "Why?"

"Why? Because Longbottom was inconceivable as an authority figure, and Finnigan was a buffoon. As for you, can you tell me the names of even half a dozen students in the years below you, other than the Weasley girl?"

After a desperate effort, and coming up with only five, Harry ruefully shook his head.

"Pity," said Snape. "Malfoy, on the other hand, knew every single student in Slytherin house."

"Are you saying," Harry said after it became clear that Hagrid was not going to fill the void, "that Professor Dumbledore forced Professor McGonagall to make Ron a prefect?" He took Snape's raised eyebrows and tilt of the head for an affirmative reply. "Why?" He had a feeling he'd be asking that question a lot.

"Order of the Phoenix," Snape replied simply. "Weasley and Granger both knew about it; Thomas didn't. Remember, Mrs. Weasley's brothers were members of the original Order, so she'd known about it for years, and Mr. Weasley worked behind the scenes for Dumbledore at the Ministry even before the Dark Lord fell the first time. Dumbledore always believed he would return and wanted people in strategic locations, even at as low a level as school prefects. The Weasley brood was perfect except that Charlie didn't want the job and Fred and George had made themselves blatantly unsuitable. I was fortunate that Malfoy was the best student for the job in Slytherin because Dumbledore would have forced me to appoint him anyway to keep the Dark Lord pleased with me – that is, until the Malfoys fell out of favor. It was all strategy, tactics, and politics with Dumbledore. The school was secondary."

It was a new way to look at things, using the school in the fight against Voldemort. "Is that why Professor Dumbledore made my father Head Boy?" Harry asked. "Remus told me he'd been the Gryffindor prefect for their year. I kind of wondered."

"I don't know," Snape said defiantly. "I don't remember." He sipped the tea, then placed the cup and saucer on the table.

Harry was still sitting and had to look up into Snape's face. "I'm getting a little tired of that excuse," he said, rising. They were the same height.

"Excellent. You stop asking questions, and I'll stop the excuse."

The irresistible force glared at the immoveable object and tried again. "Tell me why you broke up with my mother."

"I thought you saw that one. I do remember throwing you out of my office."

Now Harry was on firmer ground. "I saw what Sirius and my dad did to you after your Dark Arts OWL, and I saw your conversation with my mom later that night, but that's not when you broke up. I know you were still together in sixth year."

Uncertainty glinted in Snape's eyes. "Where would you get that idea?"

"I had your Advanced Potions book for almost an entire school year, remember? When we worked on Golpalott's Third Law, I couldn't analyze the blended poison, but you'd written _Just shove a bezoar down their throats in the book._ When I showed Slughorn the bezoar, he said I was just like my mother. I know you'd have no trouble with Golpalott, so you must have written the note to help her. You were still friends in sixth year."

Snape studied Harry's face for a moment. "You're a touch more astute than I thought," he said. "We stopped seeing each other, or even speaking very much, around the beginning of seventh year."

"When she started dating my dad."

"No, the breakup came first. Then she started dating James."

It was not what Harry had expected. "Then what did happen?"

Looking around at the walls and ceiling of the kitchen, Snape sighed. "This happened," he said. "It changed everything."

Pieces clicked together, revealing more of the puzzle. "Your grandmother. That's when she died. Muggles attacking a witch they'd known all their lives…"

"I wanted to kill everyone," Snape said with the curious detachment that accompanies knowledge when memory is absent, "and the Dark Lord's followers in Slytherin house used that to his advantage. The irony is that Sirius Black hated me because he thought I was trying to recruit his brother into the Death Eaters when all along Regulus was already a Death Eater trying to recruit me. Two of my dorm mates were on the team that Imperiused the villagers. Regulus may have been there as well. You told me Regulus died defying the Dark Lord, but I got Wilkes and Rosier."

"They died in the year before Voldemort fell," said Harry, remembering his first experience with a pensieve memory.

"Yes," said Snape, the slight smile on his face icy, "I think Dumbledore understood when he got that tip that it was… very personal. I was not there to witness their end. Vengeance is a dish best eaten cold."

"Can you show me?" Harry asked.

"Why would I do that?" Snape asked.

"Because no one understands what you did. I mean, I know you were working for Dumbledore and that you provided information, but no one knows what that was about, what you had to do, or what you gave us. Dumbledore knew, but… Well, he's a portrait now, and that seems to limit him."

"It didn't when I was Headmaster," Snape huffed. "Same old bossy git he'd always been."

Harry would have loved to pursue that train of thought, but he was already working on another. "And then there was Sirius…" Across the table, Hagrid drew in a breath but said nothing.

"What about Sirius?"

_Careful…_ Harry thought. _He's at the hook… don't let him get away…_ "He was sure you exaggerated the difficulty for the benefit of the Order. Padding your part, if you know what I mean. He didn't believe you were ever really in danger."

"Sirius Black," Snape pronounced with an air of authority, "was incapable of noticing any contribution made by anyone but himself or his friends. Make that singular – friend. He never did have but the one. If Regulus hadn't been part of the equation, Sirius might have been my best ally in keeping your future mother and future father apart. To save Regulus, he had to destroy me, thus paving the way for a James/Lily thing. Such are the mental machinations of the emotionally unbalanced."

"So your job really was dangerous?" The slur against Sirius could wait.

"Potter, serving the Dark Lord was dangerous. Spying on him was suicidal." Snape seemed suddenly to make up his mind. "Shall we go into the front room? This too, too solid flesh needs a place to lie down, and the pensieve is there…"

Neither Harry nor Hagrid needed any persuading. Less than a minute later, they were in the front room with Snape lying on the sofa. Harry extracted a memory containing pensieve Snape, and he and Hagrid bent forward over the pensieve to enter the mist…

The three observers watched as a young Snape, somewhere between the ages of the cloned body and the pensieve mind – probably around nineteen – entered a building in the west end of London. He signed into a ledger guarded by an ancient concierge, and headed down a corridor on his right. There were others in the corridor, all of whom managed to avoid looking at him. The corridor became a descending ramp which carried the youthful Snape beneath street level to a black door. There he paused. His face was paler than normal, his eyes wide with trepidation, his breathing short and sharp, and the hand that reached for the doorknob trembled. With a great intake of breath, he turned the knob and entered.

Inside the room, all was black except for a narrow circle of light in what may have been the center of the room. The memory of Snape entered the circle and knelt, eyes now shut, waiting.

Voldemort was there. It wasn't that he entered, but rather that the circle of light expanded marginally to include the throne-like chair where he'd already been seated. It was soundless, mysterious, calibrated to frighten the wits out of the young and naive. From seemingly out of nowhere, the high, cold voice spoke. "You have returned early. You do not come with favorable news."

The kneeling Snape never raised his eyes. His voice shaking with fear, he responded, "No, Lord. I've failed."

The chamber pulsed with the lengthening silence. Held within the merciless circle, memory Snape pulled and twisted at his slender hands. A gasp of fear escaped him, but his eyes remained glued to the floor. Harry was reminded of a moth, pinned and struggling on a specimen board.

"You do not come with excuses," Voldemort murmured, his voice a sinister caress. "Your punishment will be abated because of this."

The curse was nonverbal. Sudden pain hit memory Snape with the force of a sledgehammer, and he fell forward to the floor writhing and screaming in agony. Pain struck at his head, his belly, his spine – for he clutched at temples, stomach, and back as it leapt and coursed through his body – and then it was gone. He lay on the floor of the interview chamber, moaning and gasping for breath.

"Now you will tell us what mistakes you made." To Harry's surprise, Voldemort's voice seemed calm and matter-of-fact.

Young Snape whimpered. The pain had clearly not ceased with the curse. "I followed him too closely. I eavesdropped on a conversation with another applicant and was discovered."

It was a scene Harry had longed to witness. He stepped forward, ignoring the presence of pensieve Snape, who was watching the images with ill-disguised distaste.

"Of what sort was this other applicant?" Voldemort asked.

"A seer. She went into a trance…" Oddly, memory Snape appeared not yet to have grasped that his salvation lay in this meeting.

"You heard a prophecy. Who was this seer?"

The teenage Snape shifted his body so that he was on his knees again. "She claimed to be the great-great-granddaughter of Cassandra Trelawney. It seemed that Dumbledore wasn't interested in her until she went into a trance and started prophesying."

"This was not a hoax."

"I don't think so." This was not the right answer, for memory Snape cried out and clasped terrified hands to his stomach again. "Her voice changed," he sobbed, "harsh and low. I don't think she could have faked it."

"What did she say?"

Silence would have been death. Memory Snape chose life. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… Then I was interrupted and I didn't hear the end."

Mercifully, it was accepted that he told the truth. "Did Dumbledore question you?" Voldemort asked, a probing twinge causing his servant another gasp of pain.

"A little. The bartender confirmed that he interrupted anything I could have heard. I don't think Dumbledore even realizes I heard any of the prophecy."

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, a satisfied grimace playing about his lips. "This is interesting. By great fortune you have redeemed your error and brought us a gift of some use. For this reason we will not punish you further. You will return to your duties."

"Yes, Lord. Thank you, Lord." Memory Snape rose, bowed, and left the chamber. The memory was over.

Harry wheeled on pensieve Snape, who watched with a calculating look on his face. "Was that it?" Harry demanded. "What happens next?"

"Nothing," the mentality without its own memory images replied. "I went back to my job. To be honest, I was grateful it hadn't been worse. The Dark Lord was understanding and merciful. I'd failed him and deserved greater punishment, but he saw my intentions and accepted what I was able to give. At that moment, I would have died for him."

"That's sick," Harry insisted.

"Why? I'd expected death and was spared. I was grateful. What's sick about it?"

"He was evil. Evil. And you betrayed my mother to him!"

Pensieve Snape crossed his arms over his chest. "And how did I do that? Do you know what day that was? It was October 31st, 1979. It was exactly nine months before you were born. No one knew your mother was pregnant. Hell, your mother probably didn't know she was pregnant. As far as that goes, the part I heard might have referred to a birth in the past. The word 'approaches' doesn't usually mean 'is about to be born.' Dumbledore was born in July, too, you know. It could have meant him."

"Dumbledore's parents hadn't thrice defied Voldemort!"

"Neither had your parents. They still had a lot of defying to do in the following nine months. By the time you were born, it had been three times, but not yet on that Halloween."

"You were still betraying somebody's baby!"

"Not necessarily; I already told you that. 'Approaches' doesn't usually mean 'is about to be born.' The phrase 'born as the seventh month dies' is not time specific – it could mean either past or future – and the lady seer in question was an obvious loony-tune. It was the Dark Lord who decided that it referred to the immediate future and took steps to eliminate any baby born at the prophesied time. It was months before we found that your mother's confinement might fall into the correct time slot."

"Any baby?" Harry asked, that part of the explanation having made the deepest impression.

"Of course. You weren't the only one he went after that night, you know. Longbottom was on the list as well."

This was what Dumbledore had already told him. "I know that," Harry said. "Neville was born the day before I was. But Voldemort chose me."

"Who told you that?" Snape said, though it was clear he already knew the answer.

"Isn't that why he came after me that Halloween night and accidentally marked me as his equal? It was because he decided I was the dangerous one."

Pensieve Snape's mouth twisted slightly as if stifling a derisive comment. "I'm leaving this memory," he stated. "It isn't one of my favorites. I'm sure you'll want to watch it a few more times, especially the beginning."

Harry started to say, "I didn't enjoy that!" but Snape was already gone. Harry looked over at Hagrid, who he had almost forgotten was there. The half-giant had his face buried in an enormous handkerchief. "Are you all right, Hagrid?" Harry asked, walking over and laying his hand on Hagrid's arm.

"I didn't know," Hagrid sniffed. "When he come to me that day, so tired 'n forlorn t' tell Dumbledore what Voldemort were planning, I didn't know that's what he might be going back to. I don't think he ever told Dumbledore."

"I don't either," said Harry, "though I imagine Dumbledore could have guessed. Let's go. He'll want me to put him back into his body."

When the two exited the pensieve, however, they found that putting Snape back into his body was unnecessary. Neither Snape nor the body were anywhere in the cottage. Outside, the late summer sun had slipped past the hills, and the last tinge of red and orange was fading into gray. Snape was in the garden, staring up at the ridge of Weet's Hill. Harry and Hagrid went out to join him.

After a moment of silence, Snape said quietly, "Nana had an owl. He was pretty old, and his name was Nelson. I never thought to look for him after she died."

"Do you think he's still out there?" Harry asked.

"Owls don't live that long. It must be terrible to have your whole existence shattered like that. I hope he found someplace to go. He was getting too old to hunt."

The three stood quietly in the gathering dusk, while Harry mourned his own owl Hedwig, who had at least died quickly. There were worse things than dying quickly, he had come to realize.

Snape turned abruptly and strode back to the kitchen door. "I'm going to bed," he announced to the garden as a whole. "If you must insist on outstaying your welcome, Potter, there's a bed in the front bedroom." He reached the door and vanished inside.

"That's a step in the right direction," Hagrid commented after a moment. "Ya got invited t' stay."

"Are you kidding?" Harry said. "He just told me I wasn't welcome."

"I'd get m' ears fixed if I was you," was all Hagrid replied. "G'night, Harry." He, too, went into the cottage to bed down in the front room. After a moment, with a resigned shrug, Harry followed him in, and then climbed the stairs to the upper floor and looked around.

It was the first time Harry had taken a good look at Snape's cottage. Somehow the kitchen seemed different, disconnected from the rest, as if it had been there much longer. The upper floor was awkward, with the chimney rising right through the middle of the building so that the rooms had to be arranged around it. In the back was the small bedroom Snape used, which may have been his bedroom in the past, when he visited his grandmother. There was also a little bathroom. _Is it magical_, Harry wondered, _or is there some kind of septic system?_ With Snape it was impossible to tell.

He went into the larger front bedroom, which would have been Snape's grandmother's bedroom. It was totally devoid of any decoration. The walls were unpainted plaster, and no shades or curtains covered the windows. All the furniture, what there was of it, was piled in a corner. Harry took the two wooden chairs off the narrow metal-framed bed and tested the thin mattress. It was a place to sleep, nothing more. The drawers of a little chest held worn bed linens.

Harry made the bed, did a quick wash-up in the bathroom, and settled himself to sleep. It seemed immeasurably sad to him that Snape didn't want any memories of his grandmother in the cottage. He fell asleep trying to imagine what it had looked like before the fire.

The next morning, bright and early, Gillian came visiting on her bicycle.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Wednesday, July 7, 1999_

"I dropped by to see if everyone was all right," Gillian announced as soon as Hagrid opened the door, for Snape was in the kitchen making a late breakfast.

"You mean you dropped by to be sure I hadn't fainted again!" Snape yelled from the stove where pancakes were being carefully tended. "I'm not a baby, you know!"

"No one would ever accuse you of that," said Gillian as she joined them for a cup of coffee, "not even when you're only…"

"We don't need reminders. Have you eaten already?" Snape lifted the pancakes onto a warmed platter. "You're welcome to what we have."

"No, thank you. The coffee's fine. I was wondering what you had planned for the day, since I think I can get Fred's truck again. There was the little matter of a bicycle."

The remark left both Harry and Hagrid wide-eyed and speechless. Snape, on the other hand, acted as if it were the most natural thing for a wizard to be discussing at the breakfast table. "An excellent idea. Do you have any idea where one might be purchased?"

"There's a nice shop in Colne. I thought we might try there."

After breakfast, during which Snape pumped Gillian for information concerning bicycles and the advantages of having one with different speed gears, they took her out into the garden to show her the bundimuns and their new home. There were about two tablespoons of secretions in the bottom of the glass pan, which Snape scraped up and put into a vial to keep the slimy substance from drying out.

"That, believe it or not," Snape told them all, "makes the best cleanser in the world."

Gillian laughed. "I'll have to see that," she said. "If it works, do you think you could teach me how to make it, too?"

"No," said Snape. He put the vial on a shelf, then noticed the quiet look on her face. "Did I sound abrupt?" he asked. "I didn't mean to sound abrupt. It's just that muggles can't brew magical potions. If you could, I could teach you. Since you can't, I can't."

"But Professor," Harry pointed out. "We don't use magic to make potions. Why wouldn't she be able to do it?"

"Let me see… That would be Wizard Biology 101… Oh! Silly of me! Hogwarts doesn't teach that!" Snape looked around at the others, none of whom seemed amused. "All right," he conceded. "The magic," he told Gillian, "isn't in the wands or the charms, it's in us. We're born with it. Little wizard children can perform magic spontaneously, and do. The wands merely focus the magic and amplify it. You could wave my wand around all you wanted, and in your hand it would be a fancy stick. I, however, could probably lift you up and throw you against the wall at a distance of twenty paces with my hands tied behind my back if I felt strongly that you were threatening me. We don't use charms or cast spells when we brew potions because that kind of magic has a tendency to be temporary, but the inherent magic inside us is part of the brewing process."

It clearly wasn't the answer Gillian wanted, but she was able to mask her disappointment. "Well," she sighed, "shall we go into town and go bicycle hunting?"

Hagrid stayed at the cottage, though he admitted he would probably pop over to Hogwarts to check on a few things, like Fang and the thestrals. The truck wouldn't hold him anyway, and the people of Colne could probably do without him as well. The other three set off down the road toward the village.

Snape took the opportunity to renew his brief acquaintance with bicycles while Harry watched with ill-concealed envy. "Why don't you ride for a bit," Gillian suggested after a while.

"Nah, that's all right," Harry replied. "Let him have the fun."

"I'll wager," interjected Snape, slowing and stopping in front of the other two, "that Potter doesn't know how to ride a bicycle."

"Neither did you a couple of days ago," Gillian reminded him. "Come on, Harry. Try the bike."

After some false starts and a fall ("Not as easy as a broomstick, is it?" Snape remarked acidly), Harry got the hang of the thing and was soon happily riding up and down the road. From then on, it was a battle between the two young men to see who could grab and stay with the bicycle the longest, magic not being permitted out of deference to Gillian. At one point, Harry totally forgot that his rival for the affections of the bicycle used to be his Potions instructor, or even that he was a couple of decades older. It seemed Snape had forgotten as well.

Once in Weetsmoor, they piled into Alsop's truck and headed to Colne.

It took a bit of driving around Colne before Gillian located the bicycle shop. Before that happened, Snape suddenly asked her to stop the car. As soon as she did so, he jumped out. Harry followed, looking around. They were in front of a train station.

"What's this?" he asked, going to stand by Snape while Gillian stayed in the truck.

"I used to come here every year to go to London and catch the Express," said Snape. "And come home. By the end of second year, I was traveling alone. Once I had to walk from here to my house because Dad couldn't come with the car. It took a couple of hours. Luckily it was summer and still light enough to see. It gets dark out here at night, you know." He paused. "It's changed," he added, then turned and went back to the truck.

They took their time at the bicycle shop, discussing the terrain where the bike would be used, getting the proper model, color, and height. About halfway through the process, Harry decided he wanted a bicycle, too, and excused himself for a while to apparate to Gringotts and return with sufficient pounds to pay for the one he'd suddenly set his heart on.

Business accomplished and purchases made, Harry was ready to load his bike into the truck when Snape informed them that he was going to try his bike out and would be gone for some time. "I'll meet you back at the cottage," he told them.

"Do you know how to get to the village on the road?" Gillian asked. "Were you paying that much attention?"

The pause proved her suspicion correct. "I'll tell you what," Gillian suggested. "Harry and I'll have lunch, I can show him the town and the vicinity, and we can meet back here at… what time?"

"Three. No, make that four," said Snape. He mounted the bike and was gone.

"Do you know where he's going?" Gillian asked Harry.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Home."

He and Gillian walked around town, then got into the truck and drove for a while, finally stopping at a little place to eat a late lunch.

"What's he like as a teacher?" Gillian asked.

"I hated him," Harry confessed. "From the moment I walked into his class, he was picking on me, insulting me, trying to make me feel stupid. I wasn't the only one. He treated Neville even worse."

"Just the two of you?"

"No, everybody. He… One of my best friends is really smart, a great student. He called her an insufferable know-it-all."

"You'd think he'd be pleased with a student who worked so hard."

"She was telling him…" Harry paused, that moment in his Dark Arts class suddenly very clear. "No. He was trying to warn us, and she was trying to stop him."

"Warn you about what?"

"Another teacher." Harry knit his brows. He thought back to one of the first of Snape's memories he'd seen after getting the soulstone coffin, the memory of Snape telling Dumbledore why he thought Lupin was helping Sirius get into the castle, back in Harry's third year. Why he believed Lupin was trying to kill Harry. And how Dumbledore refused to listen.

"That Halloween," Harry said, more to himself than to Gillian, "Sirius got into the castle. Snape tried to tell Dumbledore Lupin was involved, Dumbledore wouldn't listen, and the next day… Was it the next day? The next opportunity. In Dark Arts because Lupin was out… He tried to tell us that Lupin was a werewolf, so that we'd be careful. He was warning us, and Hermione kept interrupting. That's what made him angry with her. Not because she was showing off, but because what he had to tell us was so important."

"A werewolf?" Gillian asked.

"Yeah," said Harry, "but a nice one, and after they developed this special potion, he even stopped being dangerous when he transformed." It was good to have someone to talk to, and Harry ended up telling Gillian the whole story about the year that Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban. He talked so long that they were a few minutes late to meet Snape again. It didn't matter. Snape was late, too.

"How did it go?" Harry asked Snape as they loaded bikes and selves into the truck.

"I need to be more careful about surprising ladies in their seventies," Snape replied.

"I was wondering if you were calling on Mrs. Hanson," Harry said after they started back to Weetsmoor.

"How do you know about Mrs. Hanson?" Snape exclaimed. "You are a little snoop."

"And you've been tucking more of your memories away in that flask than you've been letting on if you can't answer that one. First of all, I met Mrs. Hanson at your funeral."

" I don't…"

"Of course you don't remember it. You were dead at the time." It flashed through Harry's mind that this was a bit of an unusual conversation, but he plowed on. "Hagrid and Professor McGonagall visited her and told her you'd been killed…"

"How did they know about Mrs. Hanson? Is there no privacy at all…"

"Oh calm down. Dumbledore knew, and Robards knows. Apparently you took him to see her about something when you were a young…"

"Food allergies," said Snape, recalling the incident. "Oysters. Okay, so someone knew about Mrs. Hanson."

"That's right. She helped decide where to bury you…"

"Where am I buried?"

"At the foot of Pendle Hill. I already told you that. Quite a few people came. Tell me about your visit."

Oddly enough, Snape did. "I left the bicycle at the gate and knocked at her door, but no one was in," he said, "so I started back. I'd just gotten to the bridge when I saw her coming from the market, so I got off the bicycle and walked toward her." He paused, and his mouth twisted slightly. "When she saw me, she screamed and dropped her bags. I was afraid she was going to faint with no place there for her to sit down, so I took her arm and said, 'It's all right, Mrs. Hanson,' and she looked at me again and said, 'You're not a ghost.' I assured her I wasn't, and then she got all sad like and said, 'Then you're not Russ either.'"

As he talked, Snape's voice took on more and more of the accents of his childhood, of the little boy Harry'd seen in the first memory he'd drawn from the green flask. There was a terrible poignancy to it. "What did you tell her?" Harry asked.

"I lied. I couldn't tell her the Ministry story because she knows there's no uncles, aunts, or cousins. So I told her I was my father."

The truck swerved slightly, but Gillian quickly had it under control. "You what?" she burst out laughing.

"Well I couldn't very well deny a relationship, now could I? Not with my face. So I told her that 'Russ' was my father, and that I wanted to learn more about his past. She got all sentimental on me then and took me home for tea. I carried her bags on the bicycle, and she said I was just like my dad. We had a nice chat, but I had the worst time trying to remember that I wasn't me. I'm supposed to go back and call on her again sometime."

"Are you?" Gillian asked.

"I think so. It was pleasant, and she seemed to enjoy it. Having the bicycle means I can go when I want. So much more convenient than walking, you see."

They were in Weetsmoor by this time, and bid Gillian a pleasant evening. Before leaving the village, Snape dropped in on the Ridleys to be sure there was no recurrence of any fungus – the shop smelled fresh and clean, and fungus free. Snape verified the time of the appointment with the man from the county health department, asking if they minded if he was there the next day as long as he promised not to interfere. Then Snape and Harry started for the cottage.

They raced all the way, and as neither was above trying to run the other off the road, it was something of a wonder that both bicycles were intact by the time they reached home and Hagrid. Hagrid, indeed, was watching, and saw them coming down the lane, going so far as to provide a finish line and a large hand as a flag. It irritated Harry no end that Snape won.

"That's because I'm younger than you are and have better reflexes," Snape taunted him.

Later that evening, as Snape fixed dinner, Harry asked, "Are you really going to the Ridleys tomorrow? Because if you do, you should take the pensieve with you, and the bottle. You may need them."

"I don't like going in there. You know that."

"Then take the other one. It's empty of memories."

Snape shook his head. "The Dark Lord was in there for years," he said. "Who knows how that's affected it?"

"It's still soulstone," Harry pointed out. "How much effect could Voldemort have on it? Did you affect the one you were in?"

"Now how am I supposed to know that?" Snape was getting irritable and took it out on the potatoes he was mashing. "Besides, I was only in there for a few weeks. He was in his for decades."

"There's a difference!" Harry cried. "Your entire personality was lodged in the green flask. Only a shadow of his was in the purple one."

"The flasks were meant to hold living things. After being empty for so long, they may have absorbed a lot of whatever was in them." The potatoes, now out of danger, were being seasoned.

"They were broken and repaired."

"Now, Harry," Hagrid entered the conversation, "ya know that don't mean nothing. It's the material, not the shape."

"Hagrid's right," Snape added. "If anything of him went into the stone, it's still there."

"Could we test it?" Harry asked.

"And how would we do that?"

"With a memory. If it could affect your… What do I call you when you're separated from your body, anyway?"

"'Sir' would be nice." At Harry's grimace, Snape reconsidered. "It's – that sounds so awkward, talking about myself as if I were an object – it's a personality, I suppose."

Dinner went into plates, and the three sat down to eat. After a few minutes of silent eating, Harry took up the thought again. "If it could affect your personality, then it should also be able to affect one of your memories. We could test it on a memory."

"And which memory would that be? I'm rather fond of my memories."

"So fond," Hagrid muttered through a mouthful of pork chop, "that ya keep sticking 'em away in a bottle so 's ya can't see 'em."

"Right!" Harry seized on the opportunity's duel purpose. "Let's choose one from the ones you don't want to look at. That way, if it's damaged, no great loss. Maybe one of my dad, or of Sirius."

"That wouldn't do," said Snape maliciously. "Even if the Dark Lord was affecting them, there'd be so little difference, it would be impossible to tell."

"My dad was not like Voldemort!"

"How do you know? You never knew your father."

"My father was a good man. Everyone who knew him says so!" Harry could feel his neck warming. He knew what he'd just said wasn't exactly true, but he still couldn't bear having Snape say things about his father. Especially now, when there was no one to contradict him except… "Hagrid knew him. My father was a good man, wasn't he, Hagrid?"

Hagrid froze, his mouth drooping behind his beard, and his eyes darting from Harry to Snape. Snape turned a slow, speculative gaze on Hagrid, silently daring him to come up with an answer both true and neutral at the same time.

"James Potter," Hagrid ventured at last, "he were a high-spirited boy as enjoyed a good prank now and again…"

"Translation," said Snape, "he was an aggressive bully. Let me share something with you, Potter. Ever since I found that Pettigrew was your parents' secret keeper instead of Black, I have been pondering the motivations of poor little Peter. It can't have been fun for someone like him to have been trapped in that dormitory, the butt of James's and Sirius's 'jokes' and harassment for seven years. I'd bet that he hated their guts. He may have told people he betrayed your parents out of fear of the Dark Lord – I say it was revenge. He got it, too. James dead, and Sirius in Azkaban."

"That's not true!" Harry cried, rising from the table, no longer able to contain himself. "You're a liar!"

"Am I? Maybe I do have a memory we can put into the Dark Lord's flask. Would you like to try it?"

Harry hesitated. Knowing Snape, the memory would be highly unflattering to both his father and Sirius, but knowing pensieves, it would also be true. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, "Show me."

"Not until I've finished my dinner," Snape replied. "There are priorities in life, and quite frankly, your father comes well after a good meal."

"I wish ya'd always thought like that," said Hagrid. "It'd made my life easier, I'd like t' tell ya."

"Oh, be quiet!" Snape snapped at him.

Dinner done, the three went into the front room where Snape lay down to have first a memory and then his 'personality' removed. As before, Harry and Hagrid joined him in the pensieve…

They stood in the lower dungeons, right where the Slytherin wall guarded the entrance to the underwater common room. The wall was sliding open and a wary Severus Snape peered out, checking walls and ceiling before stepping into the corridor. He looked very much the way he had in the memory that had ended Harry's occlumency lessons – about fifteen, maybe sixteen.

"We had to be careful," said Snape, explaining his own cautious behavior. "Anything could be waiting out there to trap us. We spent enormous amounts of time and energy trying to figure out why it was so easy for them to attack us or break curfew. I eventually learned about the cloak and the map, but that was much later."

"Was that why you told Professor Lupin you thought I'd gotten the map directly from the manufacturers?" It was beginning to seem to Harry as if every day another mystery was resolved.

"Of course. And he understood me, too. That innocent act of his… Remus always was a good liar."

Memory Severus was now hurrying up the stairs, and the three followed him across the entrance hall into the Great Hall where breakfast had just been served. Only a few students had yet arrived, all of them sleepy and paying no attention to Severus. He quickly grabbed two slices of toast, slipped some bacon between them, and hurried back out.

"That ain't no good breakfast," said Hagrid. "And here I was trying to fatten you up."

"There were considerations at work stronger than you," Snape told him.

Severus scuttled across the entrance hall to the doors and pulled one open, only to halt abruptly in dismay. Outside, where he clearly intended to eat his meager breakfast in peace, it was pouring rain. Reluctantly he returned to the Great Hall to sit at the lower end of the Slytherin table. There he at least helped himself to a larger amount of food.

The Hall was filling as students came in from the various houses. Harry recognized his mother with a girl who must be Mary Macdonald. His father and Sirius entered, strutting (yes, even Harry had to admit they were strutting) like conquering heroes, Remus and Peter in tow. To the Slytherin table came a younger student so much like Sirius that he had to be Regulus, and he was talking to a dark-haired girl closer to Severus's age.

"That's Regulus Black," Snape told Harry, "and the girl with him is Maladicta Trimble. She was in my year. Her father wrote the Dark Arts book, so Reggie and I both tended to pick her brains about anything we were interested in. If she didn't know, she sent her father an owl. A truly great resource."

Across the Hall, Lily casually raised her head and looked over at the Slytherin table. Severus raised an eyebrow and unobtrusively tapped his left arm with two fingers of his right hand. She made no gesture of having seen it, and turned away. That was all, but James had seen it and glared. He whispered something to Sirius, who shook his head angrily. Harry walked over so he could listen to his father.

"I tell you, Sirius, they just arranged to meet! I can't let that slime ball get near her."

"I still don't understand what you see in Miss Snooty," Sirius retorted, his tone speaking volumes about his own failures in regards to Lily Evans. "And it's not like they haven't known each other for ages. I have to find out what Trimble wants with Reggie. Look!"

James and Harry both looked. Maladicta had left Regulus and gone to the upper end of the table where she was conferring with two students that Harry recognized as younger versions of Bella Black and Rodolphus Lestrange. Scanning the Slytherin table, he realized the blond student next to Regulus must be Barty Crouch. A movement to his right caught his attention. His mother and her friend were leaving the Gryffindor table. Across the hall, Severus didn't budge.

"Give me the map, Padfoot," hissed James. "I need to know where she's going."

Sirius shook his head. "We take care of Reggie," he said. "Girls can wait."

"Let me see," said pensieve Snape at Harry's side, "what would we call that today? The map is a clear invasion of the privacy of every person at Hogwarts. James and Sirius were puerile enough to check who was using the toilet. Or if McGonagall was taking a bath in the teachers' bathroom, or what girl was visiting what boy's dorm. Great fun for peeping Toms and voyeurs."

"My father was not a peeping Tom!"

"No? Then why did he make the map? It's designed to spy on everybody. I guarantee you – when Sirius was enjoying the company of one of his lady friends, James was watching. I wonder if they ever blackmailed any of them. And in the case of your mother, the modern term would be stalking. Your father was stalking your mother, spying on her friends, and breaking up their meetings. He was a stalker, Potter. That's why he made that map. A stalker's…"

"Shut up!" Harry screamed at him. On the other side of the Hall, Hagrid was watching them with worried eyes.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it," Snape said with a sneer.

In the end, it wasn't as bad a memory as it might have been. Sirius won, so he and James followed Regulus and Maladicta, while Harry was forced to accompany Severus up to the seventh floor and the entrance to the Astronomy tower, where whatever meeting he was going to have with Lily was interrupted by Regulus shouting his name two floors below. Regulus had gone to the library with Maladicta, and there the shadowing Gryffindors, concealed by James's cloak, had cast a Levicorpus spell on her so that every student present could see her lacy black underwear. Regulus had gone racing out of the library yelling for Severus, who presently came and released the shaken and intensely embarrassed girl. The memory ended with a little group of Slytherins going back to the dungeons as Severus promised to teach them the spell they had just witnessed.

Back in the front room of Snape's cottage, Harry faced the tiny figure of Snape floating above the pensieve. "Was that the worst you could show me?" he challenged.

"No," said Snape. "As a matter of fact, it wasn't. As I indicated, I wanted something where the difference between the Dark Lord and James stood some chance of being apparent so that we would know if it had changed. I couldn't do that with all my memories of your father. That one was mild. By the way, since you've seen some of the other memories, that was more or less what Al Mulciber did to Mary Macdonald that upset your mother so much. James just did it more publicly."

"Now what?" Hagrid interrupted. "Ain't we going t' put this into a bottle?"

The question stopped Harry and Snape's argument. Harry went over to the narrow mantelpiece where the two soulstone coffins stood and took down the purple one. "Shall we do it here," he asked, "or somewhere else?"

"To be honest," said Snape, "I'd rather do it outside. I'm partial to this home, and not knowing what catastrophe might occur when the remnants of the Dark Lord meet the images of your father and Sirius, I would rather guard against destruction."

Harry took the flask, and Hagrid took the pensieve, and the three went out into the gathering summer dusk. There Harry carefully lifted the memory out of the pensieve and placed it into the soulstone. They waited for several minutes, but nothing happened,

"Good," Snape said finally. "I think we can take it inside."

With the purple flask back on the mantle until morning, and with dark night now surrounding them, Snape's personality reentered the teenage body and the three bade each other good night. They planned an early rising as they now had several things to attend to on the morrow.

It took a while for Harry to get to sleep, for Snape's comments about peeping Toms and stalkers had bothered him more than he'd admitted. _Why didn't I ever notice that?_ he wondered. _How would I react if I found out that someone had been tracking my movements for months? Did my mother ever know about the Marauders' Map? If she did, how did she react? What if I found out Ron was tracking me? I'd be furious! Did Fred and George ever track me? Or Ron?_

Harry finally drifted off to sleep and dreamt of eyes following him everywhere he went, eyes like bundimun eyes, eerie and unblinking. When Hagrid called him down to breakfast the next morning, he felt tired and drained.

xxxxxxxxxx


	5. Chapter 5 – Of Bundimuns & Bowtruckles 3

**STORY NUMBER ONE: Of Bundimuns and Bowtruckles – Part 3**

_Thursday, July 8, 1999_

Snape took an inordinate amount of time over breakfast. Scallions had to be chopped just so. Bacon had to be fried just so. Neither Harry nor Hagrid was fooled.

"You don't want to look at that memory, do you?" Harry said as he sipped his coffee. He was developing a taste for coffee.

"What memory would that be?" Snape asked offhandedly.

"Y're right," Hagrid commented to Harry. "He can find more bushes t' beat around than any man I know."

Snape didn't turn away from the stove. "I would appreciate it," he said acidly, "if you wouldn't talk about me as if I were a laboratory specimen." Bacon now done, omelets now done, he slapped everything casually onto plates and served them. The plate of toast got set down with such careless speed that a couple of pieces went right onto the table. "There," said Snape, "was that fast enough for you?"

They didn't talk as they ate. After a few minutes, Snape poured himself another cup of coffee and nursed it carefully, clearly dawdling. Harry got up, his meal now finished, and went into the front room, where he picked up the purple soulstone coffin and the pensieve and brought them into the kitchen.

"Let's see if anything happened," he said.

"You sound as if you hoped it did," Snape accused him. "In a way, so do I."

"Wouldn't it be better if nothing happened?" Hagrid asked.

"It would if we could be sure," said Snape. "But what if the change is so subtle that we can't detect it? We'd think nothing happened, and then when I went into the flask…"

"What you're saying," Harry noted mildly, "is that no matter what we find, you have no intention of going into that flask."

"You got it on the first try, Potter. You're improving."

Unstoppering the flask, Harry dipped his wand into it, brought out the memory of his father and Sirius, and slipped it into the pensieve, then rose and bent over the bowl to enter the memory. Hagrid followed him in, but Snape remained sitting impassively at the table…

Once again Harry was in the dungeon outside Slytherin house watching as a cautious Severus hurried up to breakfast, only to find that bad weather kept him in the Hall. Once again James and Sirius argued over which students to stalk with map and cloak, and once again Regulus sought out Severus to release Mafalda from an embarrassing predicament…

"It looks okay," Harry announced as he exited the memory. "I didn't see any…"

"Uh, Harry?" Hagrid looked nervous. "Ya want t' go back in again? There's somewhat I guess ya missed."

The two returned to the pensieve and once more watched Severus go up to breakfast. In the Great Hall, however, Hagrid stopped Harry from crossing over to watch his father and Sirius. Instead, Harry's attention was directed to the Slytherin table.

"See anyone ya know?" Hagrid asked. "Someone as ought not t' be there?"

Harry walked along the table, searching the unfamiliar faces. Near the head, dressed in student's robes, he found what Hagrid had seen — the waxy pallor and bloodshot eyes of the man who had once been Tom Riddle but had not quite yet become Lord Voldemort. It was the face he'd seen in Dumbledore's pensieve more than two years earlier, maybe a touch more serpentine, a touch less human than it had been then. It must be what he looked like at the time of this memory, Harry thought.

The face moved, looked up, and Harry noted two things simultaneously. The first was that there was a transparency about Riddle/Voldemort, as if he were a ghost in this memory rather than a person. The second was that although the red-rimmed eyes held uncertainty and confusion, they were looking at Harry with awareness. _He can see me!_ Harry realized, and left the pensieve at once, Hagrid close behind.

"Aha!" Snape cried at Harry's elbow. "I was right! It would appear from the expression on your faces that something in that memory has indeed changed."

Harry quickly told Snape about the ghostly Voldemort who ought not to have been in the memory. "He looked at me," he finished. "I know he saw me."

"But he didn't move or speak?" Snape's brows were knit in thought. "And he didn't look corporeal, not the way we look in a pensieve memory? That's interesting. Sort of like a shadow self. Well, I can tell you one thing we don't do. We don't put the memory back into the flask. Not that one at any rate."

"Why not?" Harry and Hagrid asked together.

"Hullo!" said Snape, rolling his eyes. "What happened to me in one of those flasks? I got stronger. What don't we want to happen to any vestiges of Dark Lords? We don't want them to get stronger." He went to a cupboard and looked around inside it. What he found, or rather didn't find, didn't please him. "We need small jars, vials, things to hold memories separate from each other."

As Snape rummaged through the cottage looking for something that was almost certainly not there, Harry pondered possibilities. "What if I go to Hogwarts?" he said at last. "I'll bet there's lots of things in the Potions rooms that you could use. Cabinets full."

"You know, Potter," said Snape, straightening his back from peering into a cupboard under the sink, "there are times when you positively redeem yourself. Can you get onto the grounds in July? Oh, of course, Hagrid can. If the two of you go together…"

"What do you need?" Harry asked as Hagrid nodded wisely.

"Small vials with stoppers, maybe a dozen of them. There may still be residue from the Dark Lord in that thing, and I won't put two memories into the same container. We don't want to multiply, just divide." The three stared at each other for a moment, and then Snape said, "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Harry and Hagrid rushed into the garden and from there apparated to Hogsmeade. Without students, the village seemed almost deserted, though a couple of people greeted Hagrid and Harry as they passed through. On the school grounds, the two hurried up the hill to the castle and through the oaken doors. No one was there, not even Peeves.

"Is it always this quiet in the summer?" Harry asked Hagrid.

"Generally," Hagrid told him. "Professor Dumbledore stayed year round, but Professor McGonagall likes t' spend time with her family. Filch'll be about somewhere, but he likes t' catch up on his sleep in the summer. He don't get too much when there's students."

The Potions room was unlocked, something that would never have happened if Snape had still been there, but Slughorn was more lax in his ways. It was a matter of two minutes to find a dozen vials and then leave. Not ten minutes later, they were back in the cottage in Lancashire.

"Perfect," Snape pronounced as he examined the vials. Then he lifted the memory from the pensieve, checked to be sure no little cloud of mist remained behind, and placed the memory in one of the small containers. "Hagrid…" he mused. "Would you happen to have a memory of Hogwarts when you were a student that you'd be willing to sacrifice for us? One that did not originally have Tom Riddle in it?"

"I see what you're getting at!" Harry cried. "The one I saw was the same age he'd have been at the time of the memory. One of Hagrid's old memories could draw out the… the residue of Voldemort when he was even younger. How much of him do you think is still clinging to the inside of that bottle?"

"No idea," replied Snape. "But his last full essence left it in February, and now it's July. That's nearly six months, but what we got was thin and washed out. My guess is that there isn't too much. I have no idea how to purge one of those flasks, but perhaps we can draw the rest out with memories."

By this time, Hagrid was ready with a memory of his own, which Snape pulled from his head and placed in the purple flask. "We'll let that stew for a few hours," he said. "Meanwhile, we have an appointment in the village. It's nine-thirty, and the county health inspector's due at ten."

"You want I should stay here?" Hagrid asked.

"No, you come with us. They need to get used to you if you're going to be visiting all the time, and besides, there's some bowtruckles I want you to look at."

"Bowtruckles?" Hagrid didn't try to hide his puzzlement. "In a muggle community? What d' ya think brought 'em?"

"Woodlice. Woodlice in apple trees. I'm hoping at least one of the trees has wand-quality wood."

"I ain't never heard of a wand made of apple wood."

"Nor have I, but there's always a first time."

Harry and Snape took the bicycles while Hagrid walked. Hagrid was big enough that usually he had to shorten his stride when he was with a wizard. Today he was able to move at a, for him, more natural speed, though he did not quite keep up with the bikes. It didn't matter to Harry or Snape, both of whom were once again racing, and from time to time jousting, on their two-wheeled steeds.

They arrived in the village at the same time as the county inspector, who stared at Hagrid as he got out of his car, but didn't say anything. Hagrid waited by the church yard with the bikes while Harry and Snape entered Ridley's store. Ridley was talking to the inspector, who was taking little glass dishes with covers out of a bag.

"Why did he think there might be mildew or fungus?" the inspector was asking.

"Said he could smell it. A kind of musty smell," Ridley answered, nodding to the two young men as they entered. "I smelled it, too."

"I don't smell anything," said the inspector. "Still, it won't hurt to take samples and test them. That way you'll be sure."

"Do I need to close the shop while you work?"

"No, this will only take a few minutes. Can you let me into the back as well, and any place where there's plumbing?"

Ridley showed the inspector through the store, then around to the separate entrance to the living quarters above, where the county man also wanted to take samples. Meanwhile, Mrs. Ridley came over to greet Snape and Harry.

"I'd like to thank you again for the meal you provided us," Snape said politely. "It was delicious. Have you ever considered adding freshly prepared foods to your stock? Some of the tourists going up into the hills might like to take good, fresh dishes with them."

"I've thought of it," admitted Mrs. Ridley, "but the inn has a restaurant that prepares things for their guests to carry away, and it wouldn't do to be in competition. They come to us for the packaged and bottled things, and we're content." She left them to serve another customer.

Snape bent his head towards Harry. "Wouldn't do to be in competition… Don't you just love it? So relaxed and considerate of each other. Why can't the whole world be like that?"

"Aren't you planning on being in competition with her?" Harry asked, rather pointedly.

"Whatever are you talking about, Potter?"

"Your cleaning products. In case you hadn't noticed, the store sells them. Anyone who buys from you takes a customer away from the Ridleys."

"That's an inconvenient thought," Snape said irritably. "You might have gone all day without inflicting that one on me."

"I just thought, while you're making all these business plans, you'd want to consider the Ridleys."

Snape folded his arms across his chest. "You have a way of being incredibly depressing."

The county health man reappeared, only to disappear into his car and drive away. In response to Snape's raised eyebrows, Ridley came over to fill them in on the latest news. "He says they'll have the results in about a week, but he doesn't think I have anything to worry about. He didn't find anything to raise suspicions, except about the competence of the other chap. He was speculating the smell that day may have come in from outside and have nothing to do with the store.

"That's good, right?" said Snape. "So we just wait for the lab tests. I'm going over to Logan's now to look at the trees, but we'll be back. I have to get the makings of supper for tonight."

Harry and Snape picked up Hagrid and the bicycles and made their way out of the village to Logan's orchard. The trickiest part was introducing Sam Logan to Hagrid. Logan wasn't deaf and blind. He'd heard that Snape had a large friend; he just didn't know how large. Snape explained that Hagrid was an expert on biological infestations, and Logan agreed that having someone look at the trees was to his advantage. Logan, Snape, and Harry remained on the periphery of the orchard while Hagrid braved the attacks of the bowtruckles. The news, when it came, was good.

"Ya got yerself a good crop o' woodlice," Hagrid told Logan, "but them bowtruckles, they'll protect the trees. They got no interest in the fruit at all, but they'll keep away critters that might come after it. The only tricky part is getting close t' the trees t' harvest the fruit when it's time. For that, ya'll need fairy eggs."

Logan took their word about the fairy eggs, then the three went back to Ridley's for meat and vegetables for their supper before returning to the cottage.

"You know," Harry said at the dinner table that evening, "I don't think you need me here any more. I'm going back to London this evening. I must have a pile of work…"

"What do you mean, we don't need you any more?" Snape did not sound pleased or supportive. "We've never needed you. You've been mooching off of me for most of the week. I was going to ask you if you'd been fired."

"You sent for…" Harry started, then became aware of Hagrid frantically shaking his head. "Sorry," he continued without missing a beat. "My mistake. I know you could have resolved the problem without me. I was…"

"You have about as much subtlety and tact as a hippopotamus," Snape said. "Hagrid was obviously wallowing in self-doubt and inadequacy, and you decided to pop up here and give him a bit of ego support."

"Something like that," Harry admitted. "Anyway, I thought maybe I shouldn't wear out my welcome…"

"You did that the day before yesterday," Snape interjected.

"…so I'm leaving." Harry glared at Snape, who tried to look blandly innocent. "If you should need…"

"Not likely."

"…or want me to do anything, you know where to find me."

Needless to say, the rest of dinner was a little strained, and Harry apparated to London without waiting for dessert.

"Ya mighta been nicer," Hagrid said afterwards. "It was good o' Harry t' take the time."

"Don't you have a dog that needs to be fed and walked?" Snape retorted. "I'll wager you don't even remember its name. 'Tooth' wasn't it? Or 'Incisor.' Maybe even 'Tusk.'"

"Fang," said Hagrid. "'N you deserve to be left alone. Antisocial's what they call it, 'n y're a walking textbook example."

"So now you're studying psychology? Does that mean we have to call you Dr. Hagrid?"

"Tell ya what, Professor. I'll look in on ya tomorrow, just t' see how y're doing. Good night." Hagrid rose from the table and stepped out into the lengthening evening, and he, too, disapparated.

Snape stood in the doorway of his little cottage staring at the spot from which Hagrid had vanished. After a moment he turned back into the house and wandered into the front room. His eye was caught by a glint of light from the slowly setting sun reflecting off the green soulstone coffin…

xxxxxxxxxx

Harry had not apparated back into peace and calm. Almost as soon as he arrived at Avery Row, so did Ginny.

"Where have you been for the last three days without telling me?" she demanded as they greeted each other in Mrs. Nokes's parlor. "I even got Dad to check with Robards, but all he'd tell us was that it was Ministry business. How can you just disappear like that?"

Harry immediately took her up to his rooms where they could talk. "It really was Ministry business," he confessed, "and I can't give you any details, but I didn't forget our date tomorrow. Look, I'm already back."

It took some time and considerable persuasion, but as the time was spent together and the persuasion included a little kissing, Ginny began to come around. "All right," she finally conceded, "it was business. It's just that… well I hate being left out of secrets."

It was fated that at that precise moment Mrs. Nokes would knock on Harry's door. "You have a visitor downstairs," she told him, nodding politely to Ginny, who thankfully was not disheveled or breathless, but rather quite prim and proper. "I do not believe I have ever seen the young man before, but he does resemble that sprite you used to have. The one that lived in the bottle…"

Harry was downstairs in a flash.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded as Snape rose from a chair in the parlor. "You're not supposed to be in London."

"You're still holding some memories of mine," Snape said. "I'd like them back."

A startled gasp interrupted the conversation. Over Harry's shoulder, Ginny and Snape stared at each other. "I forgot you were so young," Ginny said after a moment.

Snape stared at Ginny for what Harry felt was a few seconds too long, then looked away. "It wasn't my choice," he muttered.

There was something in the tone that irked Harry, and the thought flickered through his mind that Snape and Ginny were now the same age, and would be until she turned eighteen in August. It was not a thought he enjoyed, especially now that he was sure Snape would be reminded by Ginny's red hair of the friend he'd lost. It angered him that Snape at seventeen was at one and the same time less pimply and greasy than he'd been at fifteen, and smoother skinned and finer boned than he would be in his thirties. A moment later, Harry was furious with himself for being jealous. Being furious didn't help.

"They're upstairs," he told Snape. "Stay here, and I'll bring them down. Come on, Ginny."

"Why do I have to go upstairs?" Ginny countered. "I can stay here and keep the professor company until you get back."

Snape glanced quickly at both. "Or I could go up with the two of you and come back down alone." He chuckled wickedly. "A fox, a goose, and a cabbage were all on one side of a river…"

"Oh shut up!" Harry snapped. "Let's all go upstairs. You'll feel right at home, seeing that nothing's changed since you were there last."

They climbed the stairs in silence, and once in the room, Snape stood to one side while Harry searched for the small glass jar, about the size of his fist, where he'd stored the memory of Snape's introduction to student cheating. Then he found the carafe that held the memory of Dumbledore's death and other unpleasant moments.

"There's one you don't have," he reminded Snape. "You destroyed it."

"Whatever are you talking about, Potter?"

"When you went back. After he came back. That first interrogation. You had this incredible… moment, and destroyed it from inside."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Pity," he said, "I was so looking forward to reviewing that one. Weren't you there? Didn't you try to stop me?"

"Stop you when you're on a roll like that? Hah!"

"What are you talking about?" Ginny asked.

"It would appear," Snape replied with some dignity, "that I am being accused of having a temper."

"Oh, that," said Ginny. "We know that."

Snape opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again. He thought for a moment, then turned back to Harry. "Do you have a memory of going into that memory?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "Two of them. One where I went in alone, and the one where we went in together. Would you like them?"

"Just one," Snape said. "The one I blew up. I'll let the other stay with you, as a backup if something happens to it." He opened both the jar and the carafe, and put the memory from the jar into the carafe. Harry extracted his own memory of a memory and placed it in the jar. "There," Snape stated with some satisfaction. "Best to keep them separate, after all. I certainly wouldn't want to put any of your memories into my head."

"I think that's a great idea!" Ginny exclaimed, bending down to examine the swirling strands in the carafe. "Just think what it could do for people who were, well, in the hospital or something like that. Long term, I mean. I could travel all over the world, and then I could give them my memories. Then they could remember all those wonderful places and…"

"I'm leaving," Snape said quickly, scooping up the glass containers. "Whatever you may plan for your own memories, please leave mine out of it." He headed for the door and the stairs.

"Just a minute," Harry called after him, "there was something I wanted to ask you."

"And what," Snape asked, turning slightly, "might that be?"

"You said, when we were watching that… other memory, that I wasn't the only one Voldemort went after that night. What did you mean?"

"Very simple Potter. He went after the two of you. You first, because it would be easier since he had the secret and your parents wouldn't be expecting anything, and Longbottom second. Both of you in the same night."

"Why didn't you warn Dumbledore?"

"Because I didn't know. I didn't find out until years later." Snape paused. "Bella Lestrange told me after she escaped from Azkaban." He turned away, hurried down the stairs, and was gone.

xxxxxxxxxx

Snape had been home for just about an hour, had arranged the various containers on his mantle, had checked on his bundimuns, and was enjoying a cup of tea prior to going to bed when he heard a familiar flapping at the kitchen window. He opened it to admit a horned owl, one that had the air of being a postal owl rather than belonging to a person or family.

"What have you got for me?" he asked, slipping a tip into the creature's leg pouch. The message was unexpected and short.

_I know you prefer not having visitors, but I was wondering_

_if I might drop by for a while tomorrow. There were one or_

_two things I wanted to ask you about. - Ginny Weasley_

"There'll be an answer," Snape told the owl. "It will only take a couple of minutes. Would you rather wait here or outside?"

The owl chose outdoors where he could fly around while Snape composed a short reply.

_My schedule is rather fluid tomorrow, so I cannot_

_say when I will or will not be at home. You are_

_welcome to take your chances._

He did not sign the note.

On going into the garden to give the note to the owl, Snape was intrigued to find that the bird was not alone. Another owl had joined it on the fence, a tawny owl that looked eerily familiar. Snape walked over to the newcomer, holding out his hand. "Nelson?" he said tentatively. The tawny owl twisted its head to one side and stared at him.

Of course, it couldn't be Nelson. Nelson was already much older than this owl when Snape was a boy. As a child, Snape had simply thought of Nelson as a brown owl. His knowledge of owls now much expanded, he recognized the bird as _Strix aluco sylvatica_ and thus, unlike many wizard owls, a native of the area. As Snape gave the message to the messenger owl, _sylvatica_ watched with intense curiosity. The two owls exchanged hoots, and the horned owl lifted silently into the night, heading south with the note now clutched in its beak. Snape and _sylvatica_ faced each other.

"Nelson?" Snape said again, and the owl hooted. From the woods behind the garden came an answering _kew-wick_. "Do you have a mate?" Snape asked the owl in surprise, and the owl hooted again in reply. Snape then went into the kitchen and returned with a tidbit of meat. The owl accepted it gravely and, with a silent flap of its wings, rose and flew into the trees.

"Nelson, you old rascal," Snape said to no one in particular, "did you have a family all those years?" He knew that tawny owls usually mate for life, so there may very well have been a Mrs. Nelson. "I wonder if Nana knew. Probably. She was a pretty sharp lady."

As he was musing, the owl returned, soundless as a ghost. This time it carried something in its beak. Settling on the fence, it offered its burden to Snape, who took it with wonder. The item was a small leather pouch, still in reasonably good condition even after twenty-one years. Snape recognized it at once, having frequently placed both tips and small notes into it. It was Nelson's leg pouch. Slowly he reached out and stroked the feathers of the owl's neck. It accepted his touch, then flew back into the trees. Snape took the pouch and went into his kitchen.

_How do you train a messenger owl?_ he thought. _Is it instinctive, like some sheepdogs? Do they learn it from other owls? And if I can train it, what should I call it. Nelson, like its… what would that be? Great-grandfather? Or some other name?_

It was too late to make such important decisions. Snape yawned, placed the leather pouch on the kitchen table, and went upstairs to his bathroom. This night he washed, brushed his teeth, slipped into pajamas, and got into bed. He slept quite soundly, dreaming about owls, and woke refreshed at six the following morning, ready to make breakfast and start the day.

Hagrid would have been proud.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Friday, 9 July 1999_

That morning, Snape had more than one visitor, all of whom seemed to consider nine o'clock as the perfect time to come calling. The first was Gillian on her bicycle. The next two were Hagrid and Ginny sidealong apparating. Gillian had already knocked at the front door, but all three were together when Snape opened it a couple of minutes later.

"Good heavens," he exclaimed. "I'm being inundated." He noted that Ginny was assessing Gillian with a calculating eye and continued. "Have you all met? Mrs. Latimer, this young lady is Ginevra Weasley. Miss Weasley, this is Gillian Latimer." At the title Mrs., Ginny softened noticeably. Snape filed the look in his mind, gleefully planning to use it as a weapon should Potter need chastising.

"Ya been remembering something?" Hagrid asked as they were ushered into the front room where the pensieve sat on the table, a memory strand floating in it.

"As a matter of fact, I have," said Snape with some pride. "I have been exploring the possibilities of pensieves, and I am astounded that more people don't have one. I was trying to remember the ingredients for cleansing potions, and recalled having read about them in the library. So I found the memory of reading, and there it was. Do you realize that I have access to every book in the library that I ever read?"

"What about books you've heard of but never looked at before?" Ginny asked, staring down at the pensieve.

"Spoil sport," Snape hissed back at her. "Party pooper." He drew himself up, not tall but at least dignified. "And I'll have you know that I read a very large number of books in the library during my twenty-four years at Hogwarts. The ones I am not familiar with are probably ones I wouldn't want to read anyway."

"Good point," Ginny conceded, and Snape looked pleased.

"By the way," Snape added, "have you eaten? I can offer a full breakfast, or just tea and some bread rolls…"

"Tea would be lovely," said Gillian. "And I am very interested in this cleaning product you're going to make. When you live in a place as old as Weetsmoor, there are things that have centuries of grime on them."

"We don't want to get in trouble with the National Trust, now," Snape warned her. "Some of that grime could be historic."

Ginny and Hagrid looked puzzled, but Gillian laughed. "I'll file an application before I start housekeeping, just to be on the safe side," she said.

They settled in the kitchen over tea, then Snape asked, "What was it you wanted to inquire about, Miss Weasley? I must admit your message has made me curious."

Ginny blushed a little. "It was just… well, all that time I thought you were working for… and I thought you were just being weak when you didn't punish us hard… and mean when I couldn't go to Hogsmeade… but now I know there was more going on… and I was in the middle of it, but I didn't understand… and Harry doesn't know…" She took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you could tell me about the sword."

"I would have thought that was obvious by now," said Snape.

Ginny shook her head. "You wanted to be able to get it to Harry so he could destroy horcruxes with it, but there's more. There has to be. For example, I know Dumbledore couldn't really have thought he could pass it on to Harry in his will. That would have been plain stupid, and he wasn't that stupid. Harry says it was like an act of desperation… just hoping it would work. I can't believe that."

Snape set his cup down on the table and steepled his fingers in front of his face. "You go back to Potter," he said, "and you tell him he's an idiot, and that you're right and he's wrong. And then you come back here and put your memory of that moment in my pensieve so I can see his expression. Honestly, Dumbledore was never that much of a simpleton."

"What did happen then?" Ginny asked, the beginning of a grin playing about her mouth.

"I wasn't in on the beginning of it, but Dumbledore knew from his spies in the Ministry – and your father was one – that Scrimgeour inherited a sinking ship. The Ministry was full of the Dark Lord's people. Dumbledore decided to use that to solve two problems. One was to get Gryffindor's sword to Harry. The other was to confirm the existence of the last horcrux.

"Dumbledore was fairly certain, you see, that the Dark Lord planned to make only six horcruxes and himself hold the seventh soul fragment. Harry managed to bring him a memory of Slughorn's that confirmed this, and that's the point at which he drew up the will. The only question was whether the sixth horcrux had already been made or was still to be made. If it had already been made, Dumbledore was sure it was Nagini, the snake. If it had not yet been made, Dumbledore was going to give it to the Dark Lord. Or rather, he was going to give the Dark Lord a facsimile whose authenticity the Dark Lord would not question. That is the main reason he wanted the Ministry to test and authenticate the sword before putting it into the Dark Lord's hands."

"But the goblins at Gringotts knew the sword was a fake," Ginny objected.

"You don't think the goblins were about to tell the Dark Lord anything, do you? If you think that, you don't know much about goblins." Snape frowned in concentration. "To tell the truth, Dumbledore was already reasonably sure about Nagini. He did want that confirmation, though. An error in so important a matter would have ruined everything. So we arranged for you to steal the sword and thus give us an excuse for locking it in Bella's vault. The Chocolate Frog card idea was mine."

"So Luna really did talk to Dumbledore?"

"She certainly did. It worked, too. The sword – the fake one this time – went into the vault, but the Dark Lord showed no interest in it whatsoever. That meant we had to get Nagini."

"Why did you forbid me to go to Hogsmeade? Were you trying to prevent Harry and Ron from getting to me?"

"Actually," Snape said, "I was trying to keep someone like Bella from getting to you."

Ginny frowned. "I don't understand. You worked for him. The Carrows worked for him. If Bel… uh, Mrs. Lestrange wanted me, why wouldn't she just go to you? And why would she want me anyway?"

"I'm kinda interested in the answer t' that one, too," chimed in Hagrid. "I knew when ya sent the students t' me f'r their punishment that they weren't being punished, but I weren't too sure about the Hogsmeade business m'self."

"That," sighed Snape, "was internal headquarters politics. Bella never quite recovered her favored position after the Department of Mysteries debacle, but she kept trying. Catching Potter would have been a feather in her cap, and enough people knew that you and Potter were an item to put you in danger. She wouldn't have asked permission; she couldn't anyway because the Dark Lord wasn't in Britain most of the time. She'd have used you to get Potter and then presented him in triumph to the Dark Lord for her reward. She wouldn't ask me because I was the rival she was trying to topple. In fact, she was under the impression that my keeping you on the grounds was directed against her. Which was what I wanted her to think."

Hagrid chuckled. "So that's what kept them Carrows in line. They musta thought you was riding them because they were Bella's people. That were a balancing act if ever I seen one."

"A real tightrope walk," Snape agreed. "What exactly happened to Bella?"

"Mom killed her," Ginny told him, smiling at Snape's raised eyebrows and widened eyes. "She went after me, and Mom took her down. She used terrible language."

"Bella was that kind of a person."

"Not her, Mom. My own mother used language she'd have washed my mouth for."

"That doesn't sound in character," said Snape, "a foul-mouthed Molly Weasley."

"That's what George said a couple of months later, when they got into the first big fight since Fred died. He said that if she really didn't use that kind of language, then she wouldn't have used it then, and the fact she did proved that it was something she said normally. He called her an old hypocrite for being so self-righteous about policing his and Fred's language. They had quite a row about it."

"I'd like to have seen that." Snape laughed. "Molly and George. That would have been worth the price of admission. What spell did she use on Bella?"

"I don't know, it was nonverbal. I know the duel was generating heat."

"Any number of things will do that, especially if the blocking and shielding is creating friction. I should have liked to have seen it. That and the Dark Lord."

"I could show it to you," Ginny offered.

Snape glanced over at Gillian, who had been silent all the while. "Great," he said. "Someday when I'm morose and depressed, you can come over and show me the deaths of two people to cheer me up. What must Mrs. Latimer be thinking of us."

"I think it's fascinating," said Gillian. "Gruesome, but fascinating. Who was this Dark Lord?"

"Him?" said Snape. "He's the one who had my grandmother killed."

The comment created a long pause in the conversation. Then Gillian ventured, "I thought Sam Logan did that."

With a sigh, Snape stared down at his hands. "There's a curse called an Imperius curse," he said. "When you cast it on someone, they have to do what you tell them to do. I think Logan and the others were under an Imperius curse."

"Whatever for?"

"To get me. To convince me that the Dark Lord was right when he said that muggles were attacking wizards and that the only place I was safe was with him and his followers. It was easy to believe. I was seventeen and got bullied a lot in school. He wanted me because I was very good at potions and charms, and I could create new spells. Not every wizard can."

"I see," said Gillian, not sure that she did. "That's why you told Sam it wasn't his fault."

"Something like that," Snape replied.

"Which reminds me," Snape added, addressing Hagrid now. "Unicorn hair. Do you think you could bring me some unicorn hair?"

"Sure," said Hagrid. "Ya got a preference for mane or tail?"

"Mane, actually," Snape replied. "I think it might go better with the apple wood."

"You can't go pulling hair out of a unicorn's mane!" Ginny cried. "Poor unicorn."

"Nah," Hagrid said. "Unicorn hair's the easiest. Ya find quite a bit of it where the beasties rub against the branches. I'm always sending bunches of it t' Ollivander. Phoenix feathers and dragon heartstrings, now them's a problem."

"Is this Sam Logan's apple wood?" Gillian asked. "It's got something to do with those mantis creatures, doesn't it?"

"They're called bowtruckles," Snape explained. "The trees they live in are often wand quality. I was going to experiment with some wand-making. I could probably find some core materials myself, like mistletoe root or an apple bud…"

"Apple buds are wand cores?" Ginny sounded disbelieving. "That must be a lot easier to find than unicorn hair. They're all over the place."

"Not really," said Snape. "You have to find a branch with grown fruit, full flowers, and unopened buds, all on the same branch. It's hard to do, but you'd have a wand good for healing. Another possible core is snake skin, but it has to be from the very first time a snake sheds its skin."

"I always heard a crocodile egg-tooth was useful for dueling wands," Hagrid offered. "Hard t' get, though, since ya ain't supposed t' kill the baby croc t' get it. Mother crocodiles tend t' object t' having their babies detoothed."

"Of course," continued Snape, contemplating his fingertips, "there's also newt's eyes, frog toes, bat's wool, dog's tongue…"

"Eww!" Ginny cried. "That's disgusting!"

Gillian laughed. "No it isn't! It's Shakespeare! Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog…"

"Double, double," Snape finished, "toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble." He rose from the table. "I need to work on the bundimuns," he said. "You're welcome to relax in the garden."

Hagrid, satisfied that Snape wasn't going to curl up into a helpless ball of self-pity, elected to return to Hogwarts. Gillian invited Ginny to visit the village. Snape, rather relieved to have the burden of being a host lifted from him, thought this an excellent idea. He headed toward his greenhouse and his bundimuns.

"Is he really thirty-eight years old?" Gillian asked as she walked her bicycle alongside Ginny. "He doesn't look it, but then he doesn't talk like he's seventeen."

"He was thirty-eight when he died," Ginny said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "but that was more than a year ago. I don't know how old he's supposed to be now. I never pictured him young before. It's kind of strange."

"Were you in his classes at this school of yours?"

"Oh yeah. From my first to my fourth year in Potions, and then in my fifth year in Dark Arts. He was pretty strict, but I learned a lot. In my sixth year, he was the headmaster, so I hardly ever saw him except for that time he caught us stealing the sword."

"Harry thinks he was a rather cruel teacher."

"I guess he was pretty mean to Harry." Ginny reflected for a moment. "But then Harry was kind of responsible for the death of his girlfriend."

"Come again?" Gillian knew her face showed shock and disbelief, but she couldn't help it.

Ginny didn't seem to notice. "Well, Professor Snape loved Harry's mom, but she married Harry's dad, who I understand was one of the people who bullied Professor Snape. Everybody tells us Harry looks just like his dad, so I guess that doesn't help. Anyway, there was this prophecy that Harry would kill Voldemort – that's the one the professor calls Dark Lord, so Voldemort tried to kill Harry first when Harry was just a baby. His mom tried to protect him, and she died. I understand that when she died, Professor Snape wanted to die, too."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Sort of. Harry was there when Voldemort killed the professor. You've seen them take the memories out? Well the professor gave Harry all his memories. That's how Harry learned the story. It seems the personality came with it."

"I do sort of know this," Gillian said, "because the mind and the memories can be separated from the body. But why doesn't he have a body that's thirty-eight years old instead of one that's – what? – seventeen?"

"It's a clone," Ginny explained. "There wasn't any body left. We buried the old one months before Harry found out the personality was still 'alive.' I don't think anyone's even tried digging it up. That would be really gross. Anyway, Harry got something from the professor's past, hair clippings or something, and the body was cloned from that. We didn't know until it happened if it would work, or how the body would come out. It was a bit of an emergency when it happened."

"He does refer to his body as if it were some alien 'thing.' It must be difficult to live with. Being seventeen again, I mean."

"What's real interesting," Ginny continued, "is he doesn't look like what I'd imagined he'd look like. I mean, you know he's Professor Snape, but he's got a kind of a sensitive face."

Gillian smiled. "Curl his hair and in the right clothes, and he could play the young Disraeli."

"Who's that?" Ginny asked.

"A muggle," said Gillian. "He did grow up to be Prime Minister, though. It's the thin face and the nose. Pale skin, dark hair. It can be a striking combination – Harry's face, now. It's the same coloring – well, except for the eyes – but still quite different. Rounder."

"Yeah," Ginny laughed. "You'd never mix them up."

"Why does he wear his hair long?"

"Lots of wizards do. Professor Dumbledore's hair and beard went almost to his waist. You've seen Hagrid. I hadn't thought of it before, but there may be more older wizards with long hair than with short. I don't know why. Of course, I never thought to ask.?"

They'd reached the village by this time, and Gillian played tour guide. There wasn't a lot to see, just the church, the school, the picturesque old buildings, and the narrow streets. Ginny went farther than Snape had and checked out a clothing store that catered to the walking tourists, and then the restaurant and hotel. She didn't stay long, though. The question about the sword had been an excuse. Her real purpose had been to see all these places so that she had spots she could apparate to without having to depend on Harry. Ginny had long ago noticed that Harry had a tendency to be bossy, and she didn't like being controlled.

"Would you like to have some lunch?" Gillian asked politely.

"No, thank you," Ginny replied. "I do have to be going. I have a couple of job interviews this afternoon, one at Caerphilly and the other at Holyhead, so I need… to be going."

Gillian smiled. "Job interviews. That sounds just like us."

"Maybe we're more alike than we realize," Ginny responded, not thinking this the time to explain about Quidditch. The two women said goodbye, and Ginny apparated to Wales.

xxxxxxxxxx

Snape, meanwhile, was very satisfied with his bundimuns, which were secreting a highly satisfactory amount of mucilaginous goo. He reasoned he might have enough by Sunday to make the first trial batch of cleanser. He went out into the garden to look around. He had a lot of work to do to get it back into the condition Nana had kept it in, yet he didn't want to use too much magic. It wasn't healthy for the plants. A delicate touch was what they needed.

_Culinary herbs should be near the house. I'll have to add some that Nana never cooked with, like more basil for pesto, or Murraya koenigii for the curry leaves, though that would require climate protection…_ His reverie was interrupted by the appearance of little _sylvatica_.

_"Hoo-oo,_" the owl said by way of greeting, and tilted its head.

Snape placed his thumbs together and blew through a small space between them. His _hoo-oo_ was far from perfect, but the owl seemed impressed by his linguistic ability. Snape held out his hand, and the owl flew to his fist. "Ouch!" Snape cried softly as the bird's claws nipped into his skin. "I'm putting heavy gloves on the shopping list. So, do I call you Nelson? I'll be honest that I haven't been able to think of a better name, and Nelson feels right. What do you think?"

_"Hoo-oo,"_ replied the owl.

Acting on impulse, Snape carried the unprotesting bird into his kitchen, careful to leave the door open in case it got nervous. Nelson's old leg pouch was on the counter, and the owl hopped down next to it. It was as if, having seen the horned owl the day before, it finally understood the purpose of this thing it had known all its life. Looking at the pouch, and then looking at Snape, Nelson balanced on his right leg and held out the left.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Snape asked. Getting another _hooo_ for a reply, he fastened the little pouch to the owl's leg. It fit perfectly, this new Nelson being exactly the same size as the old one. "The problem is," Snape continued, as if talking to an owl were the most natural thing in the world, "how do I train you to your job?" He looked around the kitchen, hoping the answer was there. It was. In the corner by the hearth stood his new bicycle.

"Did you ever ride a bicycle, Nelson?" Snape pulled the bike from its resting place and trundled it toward the front door. Nelson merely watched, waiting until the bike was outside before hooing again. He seemed to understand that a small kitchen and a 32-inch wingspan were not entirely compatible. Snape came back to close the kitchen door, and the bird hopped onto his fist, reminding Snape instantly of the necessity of a sturdy pair of gloves.

"Now," he told Nelson once they were outside, "you rather have a choice. You can sit on the handlebars…" Snape paused as he realized that even at fifteen inches, the owl was too big to sit in front of him and still allow him to steer the bicycle. The bike had a basket on the back, and Snape offered that perch to the owl. Sitting on his fist or shoulder was out of the question for reasons of balance and control, and… "You can, of course, always fly above me."

The response after all this debate was a predictable _"Hoo-oo."_

Just as he was about to start, Snape realized that he'd been remiss in his manners. "Oh, Nelson," he called to the circling owl, "I'm Richard Severus Snape. Some people call me Richard, some Severus, some Snape, and some Mr. Snape."

Nelson answered this with a soft _"Kew-wick,_" which Snape found slightly disconcerting.

It was definitely lunch time when Snape and the owl circling above his head got to the edge of the village. He didn't know it, but Ginny had just disapparated and Gillian gone to her house. Snape stopped and was pondering which way to go first, Nelson resting companionably on his wrist, when a family of tourists passed by, sturdy boots, backpacks, and walking sticks proclaiming that they were heading up Weet's Hill. The two younger girls noticed the owl first, pointing it out to their parents and teenage brother.

"Here," called the man, his accent proclaiming him from the south, "should you be messing around with that owl? It's not protected, is it?"

"Tha's all right, mister," Snape called back, trying to remember that he was seventeen and that these were strangers, "he's free t' fly any time he likes." To demonstrate, he lifted his arm, letting Nelson soar around his head before lighting on his fist again.

"Oh, can we have one, Dad?" cried one of the girls – about nine years old by the look of her.

"They don't fare well in a city," replied the man. "Come on, we've got a good way to go this afternoon." He glanced back over his shoulder at Snape and Nelson. "Dirty birds," he muttered.

"It would serve him right," Snape said to the owl, "if you pooped on his head. But don't," he added hurriedly as Nelson flapped his wings. "It would only make things worse." Snape contemplated Nelson for a moment. "Do you understand everything I say?" he asked finally.

_"Hoo-oo,"_ said Nelson.

The first stop was Ridley's grocery, where Snape requested a pair of sturdy work gloves only to find that Ridley didn't carry them. "You should try Roach's," he suggested. "You should get to know Gordon. He's a neighbor of yours. He carries things like that. I don't sell clothing, and he doesn't sell eggs."

"Speaking of which," said Snape, "while I'm here I should get some eggs. And milk, and bacon…" It was a respectable bundle of groceries that went into the basket on the bicycle.

As he was paying for the food, Snape asked Ridley, "Could we go outside in the back for a couple of minutes? There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Puzzled, Ridley led Snape through the storeroom out into the rear yard. There, sitting contentedly on a post, was Nelson.

"Nelson," Snape said formally, "this is Mr. Ridley. There's also a Mrs. Ridley. Bill and Helen. If you come here, always come to this back entrance." He then explained the owl to Ridley. "And he normally will carry letters in his beak, but he can also carry light packages in his claws, and small items in the pouch."

He fished in a pocket, drawing out half a dozen knuts. "Any time he brings you something, put one of these tokens in that pouch on his leg." At Ridley's astonished expression, he explained, "They like getting tips."

That done, Snape sent Nelson to perch in a tree in the church yard while he went to buy gloves from Gordon Roach.

Gordon Roach was a burly man in his mid thirties, with rusty brown hair thinning over the temples, eyes of the identical color, and a toothy grin. His shop catered to two types of customers, the first being the walking tourists. For them he carried things like hats, socks, knapsacks, sun blocking lotions, fishing rods, and camera equipment. For the locals who might need something that did not merit traveling into Colne, he had dishtowels, underwear, garden tools, inexpensive kitchenware, sewing notions, and all the little things needed to fix sudden small emergencies involving plumbing and electrical wiring.

Snape was greeted by the proprietor as he entered, and was not surprised to find that Roach knew who he was. Unlike Harry, Snape had grown up in a smallish town where everyone on his side of the river knew he was Toby Snape's boy, and there was a comforting familiarity in the tight sense of community he was finding in Weetsmoor. Having expressed his need for sturdy protective gloves and made his purchase, Snape lingered to look around and see what the shop stocked.

"You got the cottage rebuilt pretty fast," Roach said after a few minutes.

"Were you surprised?" Snape asked after weighing what to say for several seconds. "I didn't mean to startle anyone."

"No. Bill Ridley said it'd be done quick. I'll admit one day to the next was quicker than I'd expected… I'm your neighbor to the left of the road going out, you see, and I saw it the next day."

"I did need a place to sleep," Snape admitted. "Unfortunately, it's all to do over again."

"How's that?"

Snape examined a small tool kit. "Let's say there are certain 'construction techniques' that aren't meant to be permanent. To make them permanent, you have to do things the old-fashioned way."

"Are the medicines and things like that, too? Not permanent, I mean." There was no skepticism in Roach's voice, only curiosity.

"It is one of the fundamentals that potion-making must always be done the old-fashioned way. But even if that were not true, it is the nature of illness to be temporary, and so the non-permanence factor wouldn't be a problem. Houses, on the other hand, are supposed to stay around for a while."

"I see."

Roach's shop area, unlike Ridley's, went all the way to the back of the building, with just a small room in the back corner that served as an office. Snape walked over to the rear window and looked out. "You've got lumber back there," he commented.

"I keep a small supply. I don't have room to store more, but if anyone needed to build something, I could handle the order and arrange for it to be transported."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Snape. He bade Roach a good afternoon and stepped into the street. As he walked back toward Ridley's and the road home, he pulled out the left glove of the pair he'd just bought and put it on. As if understanding the cue, Nelson hooed from the churchyard and flapped over to sit on the proffered fist. Snape ruffled his breast feathers, and the owl said, _"Kew-wick."_

On an impulse, Snape turned. Roach was watching from the door of his shop, and seemed quite pleased to have witnessed the owl.

Having now actually located a source of materials, Snape found himself planning the rebuilding of the cottage as he walked home. It had to be done step by step in the proper order if it was to be done right, but surely that wouldn't be so hard to do.

The afternoon and into the evening was spent studying the cottage. It had never occurred to Snape as a boy visiting his grandmother, but now he realized that the cottage had not always been its present size and shape. Originally the place consisted only of what now was the kitchen. Everything else had been added later.

That ancient one-roomed building, perhaps as much as five hundred years old, was a rectangle oriented north to south, with its shorter sides facing south to the road and north to the ridge of Weets Hill. The present back door was the original door, set into the north end of the eastern side to protect it from the prevailing south-westerly wind. There was a shallow cellar, though when Snape had replaced the burned floor, he hadn't given it a trapdoor entrance like the one his grandmother had. _I'll have to remember that when I put in the new floor_, Snape thought, _so I can use the cellar_.

The great kitchen hearth on the south side was also part of the original construction, and when the front room had been added, a few hundred years later, the flue of the first chimney was also used for the new fireplace that backed onto the old hearth. It was clear from the stonework which was the older and which the newer section.

Snape settled himself comfortably in the kitchen that evening and began to draw floor plans of his home.

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	6. Chapter 6 – Of Bundimuns & Bowtruckles 4

**STORY NUMBER ONE: Of Bundimuns and Bowtruckles – Part 4**

_Saturday, July 10, 1999_

Ginny showed up at ten o'clock the next morning just as Snape was fixing a mid-morning cup of tea. "Can I hide out here?" she asked.

"I suppose so," said Snape. "What are you hiding from? Has the Boy Wonder paled on you now that there are no more dark lords to combat?"

"He's bossy," Ginny complained. "It's always irritated me, but I used to be able to tell myself it was because he was trying to protect me. Especially after that problem with the diary. But now we're not in danger anymore, and he's still the dictator. I hate that. I have six older brothers. I know all about dictators."

"So…" Snape ventured, "you imagine that I will be an improvement… how…?"

Ginny burst out laughing. "You got me there, Professor. If two years ago anyone had told me I'd be running to you to escape from Harry… I'd have punched him in the mouth."

"Gryffindors do tend to be violent," Snape conceded. "Would you like a cup of tea?" When she accepted, he added, "I'll wager that of all the brothers, you had the fewest problems with Charlie."

"How did you know that?" Ginny exclaimed.

"I taught all of them. I can't say that I know them as well as you do…" Snape laid a cup and saucer on the table, and Ginny sat down. "…but I'll hazard… Ron was the worst, and Percy almost as bad. After that it was Fred. Then George. Bill was decent, and Charlie was the best."

"You are amazing," said Ginny, her eyes sparkling. "How did you know? Why did you put Ron at the top?"

"Because he was the one being bullied by all the others. He didn't have anyone to bully but you. And you were only a year apart in age, so you were an almost-equal. The others would have seen you as more of a baby."

"Good point. After that, Percy's easy. Why Fred before George?"

"Gut feeling. Fred seemed edgier, more manipulative."

"Most people couldn't tell them apart."

"I don't remember having that problem. McGonagall could always tell which was which, too."

"Why are you so much nicer now than you used to be?" Ginny blushed as soon as she asked the question. "I'm sorry. That was rude."

"Yes…" said Snape. "I suppose it was." He paused. "Maybe it's because there's only one of you instead of nearly three hundred. Easier to manage."

Ginny accepted that and sipped meditatively at her tea. Then she noticed the drawings. "What are you doing? Those look like blueprints."

"Floor plans of the cottage. It's put together with spells right now, but that's not going to last forever. I need to plan the reconstruction. The real reconstruction."

"That's this room, isn't it?" Ginny said, looking at the paper and then at the kitchen walls.

"Yes. This is the oldest part of the house." Snape started to explain the stonework and suddenly realized how much he had wanted an audience to share his discoveries with. He found himself talking about prevailing winds, and chimneys, and the advantages of stone sills, while Ginny relaxed in the total novelty of the conversation.

Right in the middle of a discussion on the construction of the upstairs fireplaces, Harry Potter apparated into the yard and stormed into the cottage. He was clearly not expecting to find Ginny there, because he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her and then said without preamble, "What are you doing here?"

"Drinking tea," Ginny replied, her face and voice deadpan.

"You're not supposed to know…"

"Why not? I know he's alive. That's the important part. Knowing where is minor."

"Who did it? Who brought you here?" Harry's face was flushed and angry.

"I don't think I want to tell you. Not in your present condition, anyway."

"It was Hagrid, wasn't it? I'm going to…"

"No, you're not!" Snape placed himself, both figuratively and literally, in the middle. "Who do you think you are, trying to control who I see and who I don't see?"

Harry studied Snape shrewdly. "Are you trying to tell me you invited Ginny here?" he said with deceptive calm.

"I asked if I could come," Ginny cut in, rising from the table. "I had some questions only he could answer and he answered them. Then Mrs. Latimer showed me the village."

"Mrs. Latimer was here?" Harry's ire was beginning to deflate.

"Yes. Mrs. Lati…" Now it was Ginny's turn to look shrewd. "You're jealous," she said quietly.

"Jealous? Of him! Maybe if you started dating Greg Goyle, maybe then I'd be…"

"Tread softly, Potter. I feel a hex coming on."

"Oh, yeah!" Harry wheeled to stand practically toe to toe with Snape, his head thrust belligerently forward. "I've beaten stronger wizards than you in a duel."

"Are you talking about the semi-literate half-blood you tricked into using a wand that was loyal to you? Hardly a duel Potter." Snape held his ground, veiled eyes staring unblinking into Harry's. "You and I dueled once. As I recall, I used defensive spells, and I was still winning." Behind him, Ginny had begun to edge toward the rear door.

"Defensive!" Harry spat out the word, and Snape stepped back, a look of fastidious distaste crossing his features. "You cruciated me!" Harry yelled, unmoving. "I'd hardly call that a defensive spell!"

"The only one of us attempting Cruciatus curses that night was you, Potter. Thorfinn Rowle hit you from behind and I made him stop. I…"

"You blasted me! You used a whiplash!"

"And the beauty of it is I can do it again with the same result, since I doubt your dueling skills have improved…"

Harry's wand was in his hand. _"Impugno!"_ he screamed.

Snape parried the attack spell with a casual flick of his wrist, for his wand had slipped into his hand at the same time as Harry's. Behind his back, and unnoticed by Harry, Ginny scooted through the door into the garden and disapparated. Harry's deflected spell cracked several stones in the hearth.

"I warn you, Potter, if you damage my property…" Snape started.

_"Catenae!"_ Harry shouted, forcing Snape to shield himself from the chains, which crashed through the east window. "That's for picking on Neville."

"You'd do more good if you let Longbottom fight his own battles," Snape countered, then hit Harry with a verbal _"Stupefy!_" which was blocked, and a nonverbal Petrificus, which wasn't. The frozen Potter crashed to the kitchen floor.

Snape took his time with the Reparo spells that fixed both hearth and window, and then seized Harry's collar and dragged him out into the garden. "I told you not to damage my property," he hissed into the petrified Harry's ear, and zapped him with a stinging hex. "Now get up and fight like a wizard instead of a clown." He moved well away before voicing the _"Libera corpus!"_ that set Harry free.

Harry scrambled to his feet at once, a shielding spell ready in his mind in case Snape took advantage of his vulnerable position. He fired a Locomotor Mortis spell that Snape simply sidestepped. Snape then directed his wand silently at Harry with no apparent effect at all. Harry attempted an Incarcerous, an Impedimenta, and finally a Conjunctivitis Curse, the first two of which Snape dodged easily, while he evaded the third with a drop and roll that brought him smoothly to his feet, wand extended. After each of Harry's attacks, Snape had moved his wand, but Harry had no idea what, if any, spells had been cast. Certainly there had been no beam of light, and no physical reaction in Harry.

Trying to maneuver around Snape, Harry brushed the hair away from his eyes so that it didn't block his view. That was when he realized what was happening. His hair, always short and spiky, was growing so fast that it interfered with his vision. He was also beginning to feel the pressure of growing toenails pushing into the leather of his shoes and his sinuses were swelling to the point of forcing him to breathe exclusively through his mouth. He was getting a headache.

_"Densaugeo!"_ The lazy tone of the spell was an indication of how thoroughly Snape felt himself in control of the situation. By avoiding Harry's curses physically rather than magically, Snape had given himself the advantage of casting several spells that a minute later, seriously interfered with Harry's ability to concentrate on any magic at all, much less retaliate. The final insult was that he now turned his back and strolled toward the cottage, as if ignoring Harry completely.

Teeth beginning to grow alarmingly, Harry tried to turn and fire one more curse at Snape, but his feet were swelling painfully, and his teeth were getting in the way of his tongue, so instead of firing a parting shot, he tripped and fell down. It was humiliating.

Snape paused at the sound of the body striking the soft grass, then walked back and squatted on his heels next to Harry. "It's always a good idea," he said in a calm, professorial voice, "to know a few good counter-curses. And always take care of the most destructive or disabling curse first." He pointed his wand at Harry's feet. _"Panax!"_

Rather than disappearing at once, the lengthened toenails began to shrink. "That," Snape explained, "is a rather useful little charm that can cure many things and reduce the effects of others. It's probably the best general curing spell." A second Panacea spell quickly reduced the size of Harry's teeth. "You do the rest," Snape said, rising and heading for his greenhouse workshop.

Harry barely had time to get his hair and sinuses in proper condition again when Ginny reappeared, with Hagrid right behind.

"It's all right!" Snape called to them from the workshop. "He's still alive. If you want to take him, though, you're welcome."

Clambering to his feet and refusing Hagrid's offers of assistance, Harry brushed himself off and walked over to the greenhouse where Snape was revising a list of all the pots, test tubes, and petri dishes he was going to have to buy. He was grateful that Snape had reversed the hexes before Ginny and Hagrid arrived. Having them see him in that condition would have been embarrassing.

"Okay," he said gruffly to Snape's back. "So you're a better dueler than I am. How did you get out of the way of mine so fast."

"Pearls before swine, I swear, Potter. Pearls before swine. I offer you absolute gems in terms of training, and you keep going back to the same old swill. Do you remember those lessons in your fifth year that you disdained so heartily? I was doing that just now."

"You mean the occlumency, right. I didn't get it then, but then two years later…"

"You didn't get it then because you refused to do any of the exercises I asked you to do. And it wasn't the occlumency so much as the legilimency. I was reading you, Potter, just like I did two years ago. Anyone could read you. Your mind is an open book."

"I thought you said legilimency wasn't mind reading."

"Still my beating heart. You've remembered something from a lesson of mine."

"Yeah," Harry said ruefully. "Sometimes I get lucky."

"It isn't just with magic, you know," Snape said, turning from his list to look at Harry. "Muggles do it, too, whether they're dueling with swords or pistols. You never watch the weapon. You always watch your opponent's eyes."

"But if I watch your eyes, you can read me," Harry pointed out.

"Not if you learn all the other lessons." Snape bent to write more on his list. Behind Harry, Ginny and Hagrid had approached and were listening. "By the way, Potter, what happened two years later?"

"That last year," said Harry, "when we were on the run, I started connecting to him more and more. I could sometimes see what he was doing, and I'm pretty sure there were a couple of times when he was seeing what I was looking at. I don't think he ever realized exactly what it was, though, because I got pretty good at turning him off when I wanted to. I knew then that I should have paid more attention to what you were trying to teach me." Harry took a deep breath. "Thank you," he said.

Snape stiffened, paused, and replied, "You're welcome."

"And just now," Harry continued. "You could have done a lot worse to me than you did. Thank you for choosing not to."

"Choosing?" Snape shrugged. "What makes you think I had a choice?"

"You mean that was your entire arsenal of spells?"

"Of course not, you impudent twit. But what if I had done something worse? Ginny had vanished. The odds were she was coming back with reinforcements. If I had harmed you, my pleasant retreat in this quiet village would have been taken away. Some choice."

"There was still a choice. We always have choices, and our choices determine who we are."

"Now you sound like Dumbledore. You're probably quoting Dumbledore. Tell me, what choice did you have when you were sorted into Gryffindor, O Son of Two Gryffindors?"

"Now there you're wrong," Harry cried triumphantly. "The Sorting Hat didn't want to put me into Gryffindor. It wanted to put me into Slytherin!"

Snape blanched. "Slytherin? I'd have been stuck with you in Slytherin for seven years? Thank Merlin the Hat changed its mind. Do you happen to know why?"

"That's easy," Harry explained. "I told it I didn't want to be in Slytherin."

Behind Harry, Hagrid was beginning to fizzle, but Harry didn't notice. Snape did, though, and faced the group head on, his arms folded across his chest. "Let me see," he said thoughtfully. "You were new to the wizarding world and unfamiliar with Hogwarts or its houses. So why would you have any reaction to Slytherin at all, much less a negative one?"

Too late, Harry saw where this was going. Still, he reasoned, better to have everything in the open. "Hagrid told me, when we went to Diagon Alley that first day, that there wasn't a single witch or wizard who went bad who hadn't been in Slytherin house."

"Really?" Sarcasm oozed in Snape's tone as he turn to the beet-red Hagrid. "I never realized that Peter Pettigrew was in Slytherin house. Silly me."

"Now Professor," Hagrid protested, "ya got t' remember that when I told Harry that I didn't know about Pettigrew."

"No, you thought Sirius Black was the villain. And for how long was Sirius Black in Slytherin house? Or do you consider the events of Halloween '81 to have been a good thing for the wizarding world?"

"You're talking about my parents!" Harry cried.

"No," said Ginny. "He's talking about how even before you got to Hogwarts you'd been prejudiced against Slytherin…"

"Stop taking his side!"

"I never thought about it before, Potter, but green is a very appropriate color for your eyes…"

"Shut up! Both of you!" Harry could feel his neck getting hot.

Snape didn't shut up, however. "So when you 'chose' not to be put into Slytherin, you were, in fact, an ignorant eleven-year-old responding blindly to the programmed prejudices planted in you by a person you'd known for less than a day."

"I…" Harry stopped. Hagrid and Ginny were silent. "I guess you're right," he said finally. "I may have chosen, but I didn't really know what I was choosing." He perked up a bit. "I did know that Draco was in Slytherin – he was sorted before I was – and I didn't want to be in the same house as Draco."

"Also based on an acquaintance of less than a day." Snape sighed. "Would it interest you to know that Draco has been envious of you since he was old enough to understand your history, and that his hardest struggle in life has been to live up to the impossible expectations of his parents?" Snape tilted his head. "Probably not," he added in answer to his own question. "Face it, Potter, the only reason the Sorting Hat paid any attention to anything you had to say was because it was confused. It was reading both you and that fragment of the Dark Lord that was inside you. Your heritage said Gryffindor, the fragment said Slytherin. That was the only reason you were allowed any input."

"Did the Hat put you into Slytherin because of your heritage?" It was a question Harry'd never thought of before, though that had been the implication of the memory he'd witnessed of his mother and young Severus on the Hogwarts Express.

"Hah!" Snape exploded in derision. "You don't honestly think a pureblood from Slytherin house would have married a muggle! Not a muggle-born wizard, mind you, but an out-and-out muggle. No, my mother was in Hufflepuff."

"Then you chose Slytherin?" Harry was beginning to find this intriguing.

"I keep telling you, Potter, we do not get to choose. I was put into Slytherin because Mercury was retrograde into Leo on the first of September. I was put into Slytherin because the Hat couldn't see past the occlumency. I did not choose. Nobody chooses."

"You did choose!" Harry insisted. "You chose to become a Death Eater, and then you chose to leave Voldemort when he went after my mother! You chose to return to him as Dumbledore's spy when he came back, and you chose to help me fight Voldemort even though you knew it would probably kill you."

Snape simply watched as Harry grew more flustered. "How," he asked finally, "does one get to be your age with all your experience and still not realize that choice is an illusion? Dumbledore asked me to choose to kill him, and do you know what? I chose not to do it. He argued with me for months, and I stuck by my choice. And then what happened? I had to kill him anyway because in the end my choice was irrelevant. In the end, Potter, there are no choices."

"No!" Harry cried. "That's not true! In the end, you chose to kill him! I understand now that it was with his consent, but it was also your choice. I know that! I was there, remember; I saw it. You chose…"

"You saw it? You must have been someplace different from where I was, because that isn't what I saw."

"No!" Harry reiterated, a strange sense of desperation animating him. "I was there. He had me immobilized, but I was there. He said, 'Severus, please.' He was asking you to do it. But it was your choice. You chose to obey him and…"

"Potter, when you wake up in the morning and go to the bathroom, do you say to yourself, 'Now I choose to step forward on my right foot; now I choose to step forward on my left…'?"

"No, of course not! That's silly!"

"Spoken reasonably for once. Now if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you would choose to step away from the door so that I can choose to fix everyone some tea in the kitchen."

Harry stood aside so that Snape could leave the greenhouse, and then all three trailed behind Snape into the cottage for tea. Once there, however, Snape invited them to sit and took out a candle instead of a tea kettle.

"What's that for?" Hagrid asked, thereby relieving Harry of the need to say anything.

"A demonstration," said Snape. "Who wants to be the guinea pig?"

"I will," said Harry glumly, since this was most likely what Snape wanted.

"Good." Holding the candle in his left hand, Snape took a match from a box and lit it, not by striking it, but by sticking the head in the embers of the wood stove, where the sulfur caught and flared at once. Then he lit the candle and set it on the table. "I'm giving you a choice," he told Harry. "Stay as you are, or put your hand in the flame and hold it there for three minutes."

Harry had actually raised his hand a little off the table as Snape spoke, but now he stopped. "That's stupid," he stated flatly. "I know what you're trying to do."

"Lovely. Would you mind enlightening the rest of us because I'm not certain you do."

"You're trying to show us," said Ginny, her own hands clasped in front of her on the table, "that some things, while technically choices, aren't really because of the nature of the consequences. In this case, Harry would burn his hand badly to no purpose."

"Excellent. Now let's look at the scene you selected for an example. Let this circle be the top of the Astronomy tower and this salt shaker Dumbledore…" Snape paused, the salt shaker in his raised hand, staring at the top of the table. Then he handed the shaker to Harry. "You're going to have to do this. I don't have that one. I can't see it."

"Sure." Harry took the salt shaker without question. There was an odd, vulnerable look on Snape's face that made Harry feel strangely protective. Snape might win in a duel, but in some ways Harry was the stronger of the two. This moment on the Astronomy tower was something only the two of them shared because only they understood everything that was happening that night, even if Snape's memory of it was currently in a carafe in the front room.

"I was here, by the stairs. Dumbledore was over here by the parapet. Draco was kind of in the middle, with this semicircle of Death Eaters behind him…" Harry knew their names now, though he hadn't that night. "Yaxley, Greyback, the Carrows… and then you came up the stairs…" Snape, like the Death Eaters, was a match. "You stood here and looked around, then Dumbledore said your name and you stepped forward. You pushed Draco aside and…" Looking at it like that, from above, Harry saw something he hadn't noticed that night. Snape was now in the center, half surrounded by Death Eaters with his back to them. Four to one. Five if you counted Draco…

Harry continued the tale. "I know now that you were talking to him. He told you that more Death Eaters were coming through the vanishing cabinet, and that I knew where it was so that they could be stopped. He told you that Greyback was going to attack the students in the dormitories. The only one who could lead them out of the school was you. You had to protect me, and Draco, and the teachers fighting on the seventh floor, and everyone sleeping… and the only way you could do that was by killing him first, because if you didn't, the Death Eaters wouldn't follow you."

"And if I didn't?" Snape asked quietly.

"Then Dumbledore would be dead anyway, and you would be dead, and I would be dead, and Hogwarts would have fallen to Voldemort that night…"

"Now," said Snape, "be honest. What kind of choice is that?"

"You did choose to become a Death Eater," Ginny pointed out.

"I don't recall thinking of it as a choice," said Snape. "By the time I left Hogwarts, I had no family left and no friends or connections other than my house mates in Slytherin. Hogwarts tends to ensure that if you're sorted into Slytherin, you never go out of it. I had one non-Slytherin friend, but it was made very clear on both sides that neither one of us was supposed to continue that. Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs are allowed to mingle. Slytherins aren't."

"Ain't that more Slytherin's choice?" interjected Hagrid. "Ain't it Slytherin what don't want t' mingle?"

"That's what Gryffindor wants you to believe, but Lily got as much pressure from her house as I did from mine. They were always hounding her about why she shouldn't be friends with me. And once she became engaged to Harry's father… I didn't dare even correspond with her."

"But why the Death Eaters?" Harry asked.

"Thus speaks the boy whose parents left him a fortune. I told you, Potter. I was eighteen with no family, friends, or connections other than people who were Death Eaters. I couldn't even follow family tradition and become the local witch because the locals were burning their local witches. I suppose I could have worked in the mines like my father, but what if they discovered I was magical? The world was a dangerous place for wizards like me in 1978."

"Still," Harry insisted, "you can always make your own opportunities. You can go out and knock on doors, nurture contacts, make a name for yourself…" He stopped because of the expression on Snape's face. Snape was staring at him as if he was speaking a foreign language.

"Who told you that?" Snape asked, his tone sarcastic.

"Well… I… eh… I guess it was Uncle Vernon. He was always nurturing contacts for the drill business and…"

"Management," scoffed Snape. "It doesn't work the same way for labor."

"You know, that idea that working class people can't be entrepreneurs is pretty old-fashioned and defeatist. All you need is a little creativity and the willingness to take a risk…" Harry knew he was sounding like his Uncle Vernon trying to get Dudley to take an interest in business, but he couldn't help it.

"And financial capital," Snape added. "Don't forget financial capital. Now where is a working class wizard with no credit record, who hasn't even passed his A-levels going to get a loan? Did you ever hear of any wizarding bank besides Gringotts? Could you picture a goblin giving me a loan to start a business? Cauldrons and vials and potions ingredients cost money, you know."

"You had plenty of ingredients right here…" Harry started, then stopped himself almost in time. "Oh, that's right. You didn't."

"It was well-planned, Potter. Poor friendless little potions brewer with no place else to go, but welcome to join a powerful group that could give him a job and protect him at the same time. It was a lifeline. I took it."

"What's financial capital?" Ginny asked.

"Money," Snape and Harry said together.

"What about after Voldemort was destroyed?" Harry pressed. "You could have…"

"I still didn't have any money. And I was on probation in Dumbledore's custody. There wasn't a lot of opportunity there, Potter. A miner's son till I was eleven, a student for seven years, a potion brewer for three years, and a teacher. I spent twenty-four years at Hogwarts. And through the whole time, I don't recall being given a choice."

"What about when Voldemort came back? Dumbledore gave you a choice then. He asked you to go back and spy, but it was your choice."

Snape began to laugh softly. "Do you remember Igor Karkaroff, Potter? He made that 'choice.' He chose not to go back to the Dark Lord. Do you recall what happened to him? It wasn't a choice any more than sticking your hand in a candle flame is a choice. I had to go back."

"But now," said Ginny, "that's over. Now you have choices. You have money from the reward, and you have a home with potions ingredients in a place where people support you, and now you can make some of those choices that you didn't have before."

"The girl's got a point there, Professor," Hagrid concurred. "You might want t' think about that f'r a bit. A lad what ain't had the experience of making too many choices ought t' be careful now that he don't make the wrong ones."

Snape's mouth twisted slightly. "What if I choose to toss you out of my house right now? I don't recall inviting you."

"I'd like t' see ya toss me out," said Hagrid, rising as he spoke to tower over the smaller wizard. "That'd keep me chuckling the whole rest o' the week. 'Sides, if we had t' wait f'r an invitation, we'd never come. Ya ain't got no way t' invite no one."

Whatever Snape had been planning in terms of 'tossing' Hagrid out was instantly forgotten. "Yes, I do!" he cried brightly, and rushed back out into the garden calling, "Nelson! Nelson!" pulling a glove from his pocket as he ran.

Harry and Ginny exchanged glances, but Hagrid was already outside, staying close by the wall of the cottage so as not to startle anyone or anything, yet where he could see the sky around them. Hagrid knew from twenty-eight years earlier what the name Nelson was attached to. Harry and Ginny quickly joined him.

There was a _hoo-oo_ from the woods to the west, and the sudden, otherwise silent, appearance of the owl rising from the trees and gliding over the garden to Snape's outstretched, gloved fist. Smallish for an owl, it was nonetheless beautiful, wings up and back in a perfect stall, talons reaching forward to its target, and Snape, erect and still, focused entirely on the raptor…

And then Snape was walking towards the three, Nelson riding comfortably on his hand, to introduce them. "Nelson, this charming young lady is Miss Ginevra Weasley, who lives in Devon, in a place called Ottery St. Catchpole. Most people call her Ginny. And this young man is Harry Potter, who lives in London, in Avery Row."

_"Hoo-oo,"_ said Nelson politely, stretching out his neck. Ginny and Harry nodded in return.

"And this imposing gentleman is Rubeus Hagrid, who lives up north in Scotland, west of Aberdeen, in a place called Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry."

_"Kew-wick,"_ said Nelson, which made Hagrid blush and fish in his pocket for a dead mouse, a supply of which was always with him for just such occasions. Nelson accepted the offering gravely, and swallowed it neatly.

"Now remember," Snape told the bird, "no bones in my nest. Be sure you're outside when you're finished with that."

_"Hoo-oo-oo,"_ said Nelson.

"He ain't really Nelson, is he?" Hagrid asked, tickling the owl's breast feathers. "I ain't never knowed an owl t' get that old, 'n this one looks pretty young."

"He's definitely Nelson because that's his name," said Snape, "but he must be a few generations removed from the one you knew. He is of the same family, though. You see that pouch? He had the pouch and brought it to me to fasten on. It belonged to Nana's Nelson, and when he died, his children and grandchildren kept it."

"Well, I'll be… D' ya know what made him come out now?"

"Ginny did. You sent me an owl Thursday, Miss Weasley, and Nelson here was inspired to respond to his heritage."

"Have ya tested him yet?" Hagrid was naturally interested in the bird's training.

"Not yet. I took him to visit Ridley. I suppose I could try him now and see if he knows what to do."

They all went into the cottage where Nelson perched on the back of a chair while Snape looked for notepaper and a pen. "What's this?" Ginny asked, fingering the ballpoint pen. "Is it like a quill?"

"Sort of," Snape told her. "It carries its ink inside, enough to last for weeks, even months if you don't write a lot. It's a lot neater than a quill."

"I guess you have to learn about a lot of things when you're part muggle." Ginny looked over at Harry. "Did you know about these?"

"Sure," said Harry. "We used them in school. Pens and pencils. They're kind of ordinary."

Snape, meanwhile, was writing a short note: _Mr. Ridley, Could I trouble you for a few packets of baker's yeast? Just put the change on my account. If you tie the packet with string, it will be easier for Nelson to carry. Thank you. R. Snape._

Folding the note carefully, Snape presented it to Nelson. "This is for Ridley in the village. You met him yesterday."

_"Hoo-oo,"_ said Nelson. He took the note in his beak, hopped down from the chair, and waddled with great dignity out the door. From the rear step he launched himself into the air and soared toward the village.

"Humph," said Hagrid, watching the little owl sail away, "d' ya really think he'll get it right?"

"I'm fairly confident," Snape replied, "because he behaved very politely with Ridley yesterday, like he understood what was happening. What worries me is if I have to send him farther afield. He's lived in these woods all his life. How is he going to know how to get to Aberdeen or Devon or, for that matter, London? How do they train owls, anyway?"

"Ya got t' team him up with one. Let him follow another owl t' where he has t' go."

"I know!" Ginny cried. "I could send my horned owl to you, and Nelson could follow him back to my house. It isn't in Devon with my parents, but then you wouldn't have any reason to contact them now, would you?"

Hagrid smiled. "That'd do," he said.

"Not in Devon?" Snape naturally focused on the information that affected his sense of the stability of the world. "Where are you?"

"In London. Where else would I be? I'm of age, and I have to leave the nest. Everyone else is in London, why not me?"

"I'm not in London," Snape pointed out.

"What's that got to do with it?" Ginny retorted, and was rewarded with a smile from Harry.

"Well, it's just that you said 'everyone,' and 'everyone' should include everyone. And if it doesn't include me, then it isn't… Oh forget it."

"What's this?" Harry asked, picking up one of Snape's sketches, more to change the subject than anything else.

"Floor plans of the house. I have to rebuild it if it's to remain stable."

"He was explaining the construction to me when you got here," Ginny informed Harry. "Did you know that this kitchen may be a thousand years old? Maybe older."

"The foundations, at least," added Snape. "and part of the walls. The parts that weren't gutted by the fire. The front and the upper rooms were built later. It's rather an awkward layout, with lots of hidden places and wasted space, because construction had to be done around the old hearth and its chimney. That's newer than the foundations, but still about seven hundred years old."

"How do you know it's newer?" Harry asked, examining the stones of the hearth. "Why couldn't it have been built at the same time?"

"Because chimneys like this weren't invented until the 12th century. This one's probably from the 13th or 14th."

"I like the idea of hidden places," Ginny said. "Is that why the hearth is back into that corner nook? Do you think your grandmother has something concealed back there?"

"If she did," Snape reminded her, "it was destroyed in the fire. No, the area was once bigger, and the hearth was nine feet across. When the stairs were put in, the staircase covered half of the hearth and the space is a cupboard now. There's a cellar, too, but I didn't put a trap door into this floor."

They were interrupted by a sudden loud screeching, for all the world like a irate monkey, emanating from the rear door. Hagrid opened the door, and there on the stone step was Nelson, a small brown package at his feet where he had put it in order to announce his presence. He bent down, picked up the package, and strutted into the kitchen, hopping with a great flap of wings onto the back of 'his' chair. He put the packet on the table and looked around at the wizards.

Snape was quick with his reward. He had a package of meat on the counter ready to cook, so he cut off a small piece and fed it to Nelson, at the same time praising the owl as a very intelligent boy. Nelson let out a series of _kew-wicks_ and rubbed his head against Snape's hand.

"Did Ridley give you your tip?" Snape asked.

Nelson held out the leg with the pouch, so that Snape could remove the knut.

"What do you want to do with this? You could save them until you have enough to buy something."

While Nelson debated this proposition, there was a knock at the front door, and Constable Latimer came in. "Pardon the intrusion," he said with a quick grin, "but I was following the owl. Thought it might be yours."

As Snape and Hagrid greeted the constable, Harry hung back for a moment. He was pleased to see Latimer, but he was a tad less pleased at the expression on Ginny's face.

Ginny had, in fact, three reasons for regarding the young constable with a flirtatious twinkle in her eye. The first was that she was becoming rapidly aware of how important a working knowledge of the muggle world was for her relationship with Harry. All her short life she'd thought of muggles as an odd and somewhat ridiculous hobby of her father's, yet they were, like it or not, a fundamental part of Harry's being. It wasn't just that he'd grown up in a muggle home and gone to a muggle school. It was that he and Snape, tacit enemies for seven years, had an instant and profound connection over arcane mysteries such as pens and financial capital. If she wanted to get as close as possible to Harry, she had to master this other world, too.

The second reason involved aesthetics. Ginny thoroughly enjoyed looking at things that were pleasant to look at, and when one of them stood in front of her with a quirky grin and a neat, trim form… Well, who could blame a girl for looking? Then there was the uniform. Wizards don't have uniforms, but that didn't make Ginny any less susceptible. The contrast between the formal authority of the domed helmet and the humor in the soft gray eyes merited study – for artistic reasons, of course!

Reason number three was not so noble. Ginny had, of late, begun to notice that Harry was 1) dictatorial and 2) taking her entirely too much for granted. She was bound and determined to break him of both habits, and making him jealous seemed as good a way as any to achieve her goal.

Harry had other ideas. "Good morning, Constable Latimer," he said, with more emphasis on the name 'Latimer' than was really necessary. "Or is it afternoon already? How is your lovely wife? Ginny, this is Hugh Latimer. Gillian's husband? You met Gillian yesterday. Constable, this is Miss Ginevra Weasley."

"Oh, yes," Ginny said, slightly deflated. "Pleased to meet you."

"Ma'am," said Hugh, touching a finger to the brim of the helmet. "Gillian said she'd shown you something of the village. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." He turned back to Snape, who had begun answering Hugh's question.

"Yes, indeed. That's my owl. His name's Nelson, and apparently he's been living here all along. Probably the great-grandson of my grandmother's owl. He's great for carrying messages, or will be once we've trained him up. Look what he's brought from Ridley's. A perfect first try."

"Nelson," said Hugh. "I'll remember that. He may come in very handy some day." Hugh allowed himself to be introduced to the owl, then said, "I'm on duty, so I can't stay, especially in a place where I can't get a satellite signal, but I wanted to remind you that it wouldn't be a bad idea to get yourself a telephone. I doubt they'll lay a line out here, but a mobile phone would do."

"How's he supposed to use a mobile phone here," Harry pointed out, "if you can't get a signal?"

"You can on either side of the cottage," Hugh explained, "just not right where the cottage is. And there's always voice mail. Anyone who called could leave a message. It's for those with no owls. Gordon Roach, for example, could leave a message that an order had come in."

That sent Snape back to his drawings. "Here, Latimer," he insisted, "what do you think I could do with this?"

Hugh studied the floor plans. "It is awkward, isn't it? I assume it's the chimneys." He looked up at Snape. "Are you wedded to having the place look exactly like your grandmother's home? Because if you aren't, there are other things you could do."

Snape shook his head. "I'm not digging up the foundations," he said.

"You don't have to. You could change the position of the staircase, and that of the doors, for example. And the bathroom…" Hugh paused. "Did you notice that the kitchen and bathroom pipes are on opposite sides of the house? What do you have for a septic system?"

Ominous silence filled the room, then… "Magic," Snape admitted. "It's done with magic."

"I doubt that's up to code," Hugh laughed, "though it's probably cleaner than what some of them have."

"What would you do?" Snape pressed him.

"I'd have to study it more," Hugh said, "but one idea would be to have the stairs go up from the front room. It would get rid of that odd little room that breaks the front room into an L-shape, but it would open the full hearth. You don't need the hearth for the kitchen since you have the stove, so you could put in a room there for your books and still have space for a decently large kitchen in the rear. And upstairs you might be able to fit three rooms and a bath instead of just two."

Hugh did have to leave, and he bade them all a pleasant afternoon. Snape was suddenly afire with ideas for the house and had, frankly, no need for company. Hagrid returned to Hogwarts, Harry and Ginny to London, and Nelson to the woods. Snape fixed lunch for himself and settled down to redraw his home.

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_Sunday, July 11, 1999_

It wasn't until the following morning that Snape remembered that he'd forgotten to ask a very important favor of Hagrid. He needed fairy eggs. Normally one could use wood lice to entice bowtruckles out of trees, but these particular trees already had wood lice. However, if there is anything bowtruckles like better than wood lice, it is fairy eggs. Snape needed fairy eggs, and he needed them before Monday night. It had to do with the moon.

The moon, as everyone knows, is vitally important to the working of magic. This was a fact particularly noted by the ancient Romans – a very practical race – and they based their entire calendar around it. The principle is simple. For the most efficient magic, you should work only while the moon is waxing. Things attempted while the moon wanes will either fail entirely or will be of reduced quality.

The Roman cycle started with the new moon, which was called _Kalends_. Priests would go out to observe the exact moment when the moon was completely obscure and could tell by its position in the sky how many days it would be until the moon was at the quarter, which was called _Nones_. This would be announced, and the countdown would begin: sixth day of _Nones_, fifth… fourth… third… the day before… Since the Romans didn't have the concept of zero – that would come much later from India – day 1 was _Nones_ itself. There were special rites and ceremonies that came within the period leading to _Nones_.

The full moon was called _Ides_, and there was a similar countdown to get to _Ides_. This was the most auspicious time of the month (a word that even comes from 'moon') when magic, fate, luck were at their highest. Enterprises started in the period between _Nones_ and _Ides_ were sure to be successful. After _Ides_, the rest of the month was a dud, and so the countdown was to the next _Kalends_. Nobody even cared about the waning quarter.

Now the Romans had probably the world's greatest respect for law, bar none. This was, after all, the people that believed their legislature could turn dictators into gods by passing a law. When they wanted to mesh this lunar calendar with the solar calendar, they just passed a law decreeing when the _Kalends_, _Nones_, and _Ides_ would be. Forget looking at the moon. The actual moon was subordinate to Roman law. When Julius Caesar strolled into the rotunda of the Senate building asking if everyone was there, and was stabbed to death by those who were, it was the Ides of March because Roman law said it was. Nobody, by that time, was looking at the moon.

Witches and wizards of the northern climes, however, had considerably less faith in Roman law than the Romans did. They continued using the moon itself and its phases as a guide to the timing of particularly important or complex magical actions. Certain spells had to be worked out between the first quarter and the full. Spells woven at the wrong time… Was it merely coincidence that the Fidelius Charm that failed to protect James and Lily Potter was performed at the worst possible time, between the second quarter and the new moon?

Wand wood needs to be cut at the precise time when the moon begins to wax after its long waning period. It cannot be before the exact moment of the new moon, though it can be a few minutes after. In this year of Our Lord 1999, the new moon of July was on Tuesday, July 13, at 3:24 am British Summer Time. If Snape wanted the bowtruckles to permit him near the trees with wand-quality wood at just that moment, he needed fairy eggs.

_How do I contact them?_ Snape pondered over his morning coffee. _Ginny suggested sending an owl to show Nelson the way to London, but no time was agreed on. Plus, London's not Scotland._

The coffee inspired no soaring solutions. Time was, however, a-wasting. Snape finished his breakfast and stepped into the back garden, a note in his hand. "Nelson!" he called. "Nelson, I have something for you!"

Time seemed to drag, though it was actually but five minutes before the owl appeared. He flew to Snape's gloved hand and awaited his instructions.

"I'm sorry to put this on you," Snape confessed, "but I forgot to tell Hagrid something and you're the best messenger I have. Do you think you could find your way to northern Scotland? It's… well, it's north of here, a long distance away."

_"Hoo-oo-oo,"_ said Nelson, his head tilted to one side.

"This is going to Rubeus Hagrid at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's about two hundred seventy-five miles away, and you'll have to pass over the Pennines, then the Uplands of southern Scotland, and into the Grampian Mountains. Nothing much grows there. If you bear just a bit west of north, the only city you'll pass will be Edinburgh. Do you want to try? It will be difficult."

_"Hoo-oo,"_ said Nelson, reaching for the note.

"Good luck," Snape told the owl as he raised his fist and released the bird into the air.

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Nelson headed north. North was easy. He could feel north like a magnet, though that magnet was weaker in him than it was in birds that migrated. North and maybe a bit west of north, that was what the Snape Wizard had said. And maybe ten hours of flight. Maybe even eleven. More if he got lost.

Rising higher to let the air currents carry him without unnecessary flapping of wings – wing flapping used energy – Nelson paid attention to the ground below. The Pennines were his own mountains, and he was amazed at how much greater they were than he had ever realized. They stretched north, mile after long mile under his wings. He followed the dip and rise of the hills, knowing that as long as they were under him and he going north, he was heading in the right direction.

A bird's metabolism runs faster than a human's, and just where the South Tyne flowed by the remnants of Hadrian's Wall, Nelson paused to hunt. An owl in daylight is rare, and the few mice that Nelson bagged could be excused for thinking themselves safe. Hunger and thirst now both satisfied, Nelson continued north.

It was around Selkirk that he lost his bearings. The Snape Wizard had mentioned Uplands. That, to Nelson, meant ground rising to meet him in the air. He was confused as to whether the Cheviots were these Uplands or not, and so he paused, settling in a tree and kew-wicking to let other owls know that he was no territorial threat.

There are wizards in the lowlands of Scotland, and these wizards have owls. One heard Nelson's cry for help and came to him, telling him that Edinburgh was still to the north and west, and the Grampians beyond. This owl knew, and tried to explain, where Hogwarts was, but was himself on a mission to Newcastle, and could not play guide.

So Nelson continued north. Before long the houses and streets of Edinburgh, and more importantly its hilltop castle, let Nelson know he was on the right track. From that point, however, things became less certain. The low land around the firths of Forth and Tay rose to the bleakness of the bare Grampians. Nelson was lost. He hooed as he flew; he screeched and chittered; he wanted to land, but there were no trees.

Hogwarts, however, has its own population of owls, any one of whom can be out on a student's embassage at any time. One of these owls, on a mission to Glasgow, heard Nelson and of his plight. He changed direction to intercept the stranger and guide him not only to Hogwarts, but to Hagrid's hut. Nelson chirruped his thanks as the other owl rose and soared to the southwest.

Thus it was that Hagrid, at about nine o'clock that Sunday evening, apparated into the Pendle district of Lancashire, just outside the village of Weetsmoor, with an owl in his coat pocket. He carried not only an owl, but also fairy eggs. The 'pop' of his arrival was quite loud and pulled Snape into the front yard to greet him.

"Do you have Nelson?" Snape cried, running from the house onto the front lawn as soon as he heard the plosion of apparating. Nelson's head poked out of Hagrid's pocket and back in again. "What a good owl! What a brave owl! Hagrid, get him inside, he must be exhausted!" Then, almost as an afterthought, "Thank you for bringing him. I am so relieved he didn't have to fly for ten hours back here!"

"Y're welcome," said Hagrid, a genial grin lighting his face. "The poor birdie was plumb tuckered out. He got his message through, though. One jar of fairy eggs, compliments of Professor Slughorn."

Snape skidded to a stop. "Slughorn?" he said. "I didn't know Slughorn knew I was here. I mean, how secret is it if Slughorn knows?"

"Oh, he don't know nothing," Hagrid chuckled. "I just told him I needed fairy eggs f'r some bowtruckles, 'n he ups 'n gives me a jar with his compliments. That's all I meant."

Snape grinned, or at least as close to a grin as he was able to get. "Well, that's all right then, isn't it? Can I have Nelson? I need to take care of him."

"Oh, right," said Hagrid, fishing in his cavernous pocket for the little owl. "He's right here. I fed him a bit and let him rest while I got the fairy eggs. He'll be all right." He lifted Nelson out and set him on the back of the chair where the little owl stretched his wings and neck in satisfaction for the freedom from the pocket's constraints.

"Hey, there," Snape said, tickling Nelson's feathers. "How's my owl? How's my boy? Here's a treat," and he slipped Nelson a couple of pieces of meat, leaving the door open so that the owl could go outside any time he wanted.

"Now," Snape sighed as he and Hagrid sat down to a late glass of wine – store bought, not elf-made – "I have to visit Logan tomorrow and let him know I'll be prowling around his trees Monday night. I wouldn't want him to think I was a prowler and wake up Latimer."

"Would ya be needing any assistance?" Hagrid asked. "I could come along and help, ya know."

"That's kind of you," said Snape. "I won't really know until I check the trees tomorrow, but that wouldn't give me any time to contact you. I suppose I have to decide tonight."

"If ya don't mind my asking," Hagrid coughed apologetically, "but did it occur t' ya t' send a patronus? It'd save the lad here a long journey." He nodded to Nelson, who seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

"Oh, no." Snape shook his head with considerably emphasis. "Have you any idea what a huge magical footprint a patronus leaves? Hogwarts is so heavily charged with magic that you wouldn't notice there, but out here…? I might as well put out a large neon sign that says 'Powerful wizard living in muggle community!'" There was another reason, which was that Snape was not certain he could send a patronus in his altered state, but he didn't want to discuss that with Hagrid just yet.

"I hear ya," Hagrid said. He'd spent a substantial portion of his life trying not to leave a large magical footprint since he wasn't legally allowed to perform magic until about a year previously. "I guess that means ya got t' decide now."

"Then it's yes. I could probably use the help."

So Hagrid returned to Hogwarts, and Snape went upstairs, though he did spend a little time pacing through the upstairs rooms measuring things before he actually went to bed.

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_Monday, July 12, 1999_

Sam Logan had two dozen apple trees which provided him with a little, much appreciated, extra income in the autumn. He sold some of his crop to Ridley, and some in the other towns of the vicinity. Three of those trees now had bowtruckles, a bowtruckle each. Logan accompanied Snape to the orchard to remind him which they were, though Snape could probably have renewed the acquaintance, somewhat more painfully, on his own. This time Snape brought the fairy eggs.

"They look like pearls," Logan commented as Snape extracted a spoonful from his jar. "Are they really from fairies? It seems cruel." Logan had been positively laconic up to this point, so Snape waxed more loquacious in his response.

"You're thinking of Tinkerbell," Snape told him, carefully spreading the round white eggs on the top of a protruding rock. "Fairies, real ones, aren't miniature people with wings, though they do resemble us in a superficial way. They're more like bugs. Glowworms, or fireflies. Note that they lay eggs. And they're not particularly intelligent. Vain, quarrelsome things, actually. We have a tendency to anthropomorphize everything, so we think of these nasty little creatures as people. They're not. It's a little like thinking of ladybugs as people. Actually, ladybugs are more beneficial."

"I see," said Logan, for all the world as if he really did.

The bowtruckles scented the fairy eggs in a remarkably short period of time. In fact, Snape and Logan were forced to move rather quickly to avoid being pinched and prodded. While the bowtruckles fought over their treats, Snape checked the three trees. Two of them were definitely wand-quality wood. The third had a branch that carried bud, blossom, and growing fruit at the same time. Snape paid particular attention to the location of that one. Then the bowtruckles returned to their trees, and Snape and Logan retreated.

Snape paused for some moments to look at other trees, unoccupied trees. "You could use more bowtruckles," he said.

"Whatever for?" Logan asked. "Aren't three trees enough?"

"No, look." Snape drew Logan's attention to the bark on the trunk of the nearest tree. "This one's infested with wood lice, too. There are probably more. A bowtruckle in each tree would keep this orchard healthier. And bowtruckles would ensure that nothing – not birds, not animals, not people – would take any of your apples. Frankly, if you're lucky, they'll breed."

Logan considered this carefully. "It may be you're right. It may be a good thing in disguise. As long as I could be sure of the fairy eggs. Are they expensive?"

Snape laughed – a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "Are you joking? If you've got wand quality apple wood in this orchard," he said. "Wizards will be falling over themselves offering you fairy eggs just for a chance to get the wood. I could set you up with the premier wand maker in England for an annual harvest of the best branches. I don't think the cost of fairy eggs is something you have to worry about."

"Well, that's all right, then," said Logan.

"Now, remember," Snape said as they parted company. "I'll be here tonight, after midnight. I'll have a companion, the rather large fellow. Don't worry. We'll take good care of your trees."

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Down in London on the same morning, Sally-Anne Perks contemplated the new report that in addition to routine household spells in the Weetsmoor area over the weekend, there had been a few dueling and shielding spells, and several hexes and jinxes. This time she said nothing to Harry Potter, nor did she file the report, but kept it in her inbox in case she needed to refer to it quickly in the future.

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_Tuesday, 13 July 1999, just before 3:00 am_

Hagrid arrived a half hour before the new moon (which, of course, was not visible, being on the other side of the earth) in order to ensure that Snape woke up on time. Snape had not asked him to do this, but Hagrid had a sort of sixth sense about these things. He reasoned that Snape would try to get some sleep before their nocturnal expedition and would totally forget the fact that he had no house-elves to wake him up at an appointed hour.

For the most part, Hagrid was right. Snape did remember that he had no house-elves, but only at the moment when he was climbing the stairs to his bedroom at about six o'clock the previous evening, when it was far too late to do anything about it. _I need an alarm clock_, he thought to himself, and considered foregoing the sleep, but reasoned that he did not have to cut the wood at the precise moment of the new moon, only at some time after that moment, and that Hagrid, having house-elves, would be able to wake him. He went back down the stairs to leave the front door unlocked so that Hagrid wouldn't have to break it open if Snape was deep in dreamland when he arrived.

Now we must speak of biorhythms and internal clocks. Snape was not used to going to bed at six, and neither was his teenage body. He would have been hard-pressed to pinpoint any night in his life when he'd gone to bed at six. Having done so on this night, he was faced with the paradox that going to bed, with whatever good intentions, does not equal falling asleep. For four hours he tossed and turned, then finally drifted off, and was dreaming about trying to scour bundimun mucus off of his grandmother's wallpaper when Hagrid said, "Ya'll never get nothing done if ya keep lazing about like this."

"I'm not lazing. I've been at this job all afternoon," Snape replied, for Hagrid was in the dream as well, "but I daren't damage the wallpaper."

Hagrid chuckled. "There ain't gonna be no wallpaper where y're going," he said, and Snape was suddenly awake and alert.

"What time is it?"

"Three in the morning. We got plenty o' time."

"For which I thank you." Snape swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He was fully clothed, except for a jacket, not having undressed earlier. "I really need to get an alarm clock."

"Ya coulda used Nelson," Hagrid pointed out. "The wee lad lives in the nighttime, 'n ya could tell him when t' wake ya."

"How would I do that?" Snape asked, following Hagrid down the stairs. "Do owls understand hours?"

"Nah," said Hagrid, chuckling again, "but on a night when there's a moon, ya could tell him t' wake ya when the moon's at a certain place in the sky. An' when there's no moon, like tonight, ya could use a certain star. Ya'd have t' work it out with him ahead o' time of course – so 's he knowed what ya was talking about."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Snape. He'd pulled on a jacket, though the night wasn't particularly chilly, and the two slipped out the door and made for the road.

It was quite dark. Hagrid, half giant as he was, had no trouble seeing by starlight. Snape, on the other hand, found himself stepping cautiously, wary of every possible unevenness in the road and fearful of every pebble.

"Ya might try a Lumos," Hagrid grumbled, quickly weary of slowing his pace to match Snape's timidity. "There ain't no one t' see ya, 'n even if there was, they'd know it was you."

"I am not going to light a beacon for the Ministry of Magic!" It was hard to convey irritation when one was trying to keep one's voice low.

"You been lighting beacons since May. You been sending up flares. How's a Lumos going t' make a difference?"

"Because, Mr. Smarty, it's three in the morning and decent people are supposed to be asleep. A Lumos at three not only means 'magic folk,' it means 'prowler.'" Snape stumbled over an uneven place and nearly fell.

"There!" Hagrid was vindicated and triumphant. "Ya'll kill yerself before ya get anywhere near them bowtruckles." He hesitated, then suggested, "I could carry ya."

"I am," Snape hissed, "NOT a baby!"

"I weren't suggesting it." Hagrid stopped dead in the road, forcing Snape to do the same. "I were merely pointing out that I am half a giant, and you are a wizard. I can see in the dark better 'n you, 'n I wouldn't be put out by carrying ya, 'specially seeing as y're a teenager 'n a bit scrawny. Them's what ya call facts. Take 'em or leave 'em."

Snape pondered the indisputability of this for a few moments and was smart enough to give in. He climbed onto Hagrid's back, and they were shortly in Logan's orchard.

Once in Logan's orchard, the initial major point of debate became the time. At what point was it exactly 3:24 am, British Summer Time? Hagrid called it first, but Snape said he was three minutes fast. Being slow was not a problem, but being fast was. Snape refused to approach an apple tree until he was convinced that the moment of the new moon was past.

After that, it became more complicated. Three trees had to be checked and pruned, but all the bowtruckles on all three trees would be drawn to the fairy eggs at the same time. This meant that Hagrid had to dispense the fairy eggs at a gradual pace, allowing Snape to check the trees with a certain amount of leisure. Snape didn't mind the division of labor, but Hagrid was not enthused. Bowtruckles are not entirely stupid, and they quickly realized where the fairy eggs were coming from, attacking both the jar and Hagrid's hand that held it.

"Ya can't move a mite faster?" Hagrid called, swatting a bowtruckle that was jabbing at the back of his left hand. "Ya don't want me t' be injuring these varmints, now, do ya?"

"Keep them busy!" Snape called. "There's wand wood here!" He was looking for suckers, either from the root stock or from a branch, which grow straight and true. Two of the trees had a useable sucker, both long enough and thick enough for a wand, and one of them had three. That was five wand-quality branches. Snape took his time cutting them to be sure he injured none of the wood.

"I'm really beginning t' hate these bowtruckles," Hagrid warned, but Snape was inspecting the third tree for the wand core branch he'd found before. Fruit, blossom, and bud on the same branch. He cut it off with care.

"That's it!" Snape called as soon as he was finished. "You can retreat!"

And retreat Hagrid did, the bowtruckles still after him and the as yet unemptied jar of fairy eggs in his hand. "Get off me!" Hagrid bellowed, slapping at the woody, mantis-like creatures. "Go back t' yer trees! I ain't got nothing left f'r ya!"

Snape released a couple of stinging hexes. "Move, Hagrid!" he yelled. "Get out from under the trees! Fast!" Hagrid had already had that thought and was heading for the open road. The bowtruckles, unable to desert their trees. released him and returned to their homes.

"Well," Hagrid sighed as Snape joined him on the road, "that's it, isn't it?"

"For the moment," Snape agreed. "I have some work to do."

"Wha's that?" Hagrid asked.

"I have to set the wood drying. You can't make wands from green wood, you know. And then I have to preserve the apple bud for the core. I probably shouldn't even have cut it so soon, but who knows if there'll be another? Such a tricky business, wands."

Hagrid agreed that wands were a tricky business, but insisted that walking down a starlit road was tricky, too. He once again carried Snape pick-a-back until they reached the cottage, and then apparated back to Hogwarts. Snape took his newly won treasures into the cottage and began their processing.

The five long, straight sticks were laid on top of the stove, where the residual heat from the wood fire would begin their slow drying and maturing. The bud on the tri-generational branch was removed and frozen into an ice cube, an ice cube that had no business being there, since there was no refrigerator to provide a freezer. It's all right, Snape thought as he went back to bed with the dawn, if the bud doesn't work, I'll use a unicorn hair.

It was five o'clock, summer time, and the sun was casting its first shadows along the vales of the Lancashire moors. All of Weetsmoor was still asleep, and Snape was joining them. They would be rising soon, to jobs as far away as Manchester, but Snape would sleep until ten o'clock. Then he would rise and check first the wand wood and then the apple bud. After that, he would collect bundimun secretions – less abundant than he had hoped – and begin brewing the first of his cleaning solutions.

For the rest, everything was normal for a Tuesday in July. Constables walked their rounds, shopkeepers tended their customers, employees of the Ministry of Magic sifted through papers in their in-boxes, and recent secondary-school graduates went job hunting. Everything was, in fact, as it should have been.

Until the next time, of course.

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Here ends the first story.


	7. Chapter 7 – What's in the Belfry? 1

**STORY NUMBER TWO: What's in the Belfry? – Part 1**

_Wednesday, July 14, 1999_

_Sunlight poured into the rear garden where Nana knelt, poking in the earth with a trowel to loosen the weeds. Though he couldn't see her face, he knew exactly the expression on it – quiet concentration and focus. There were bees everywhere, bumbling and buzzing, bees as big as his fist. They spoke to him in a kind of grumpy, gravelly way, telling him where to plant the seedlings, and he listened, for 'a garden without bees is a garden without flowers.'_

_"Worms," Nana said, and she was both kneeling by the weeds and beside him at the same time, her back over there, and her voice by his ear. "The soil's too hard. We need earthworms, big ones."_

_"How do I find them, Nana?" he asked. "It's too hot and dry."_

_"Rainworms, then," she said, and her hand pointed, without her face turning, in the direction of the front garden where it was raining steadily. He ran into the rain, searching for the worms that came to the surface as the water beat its tattoo into the earth. They were everywhere, great slimy night crawlers that slurped back into the ground when he tried to seize them._

_"They're too slippery," he called to Nana, but the night crawlers were drying out, getting rough and hard, more like snakes. He grabbed several and stuffed them into pockets in his school robes. 'Take us to her,' the night crawlers said, but the bees hummed that he needed to have his arm stung first. 'Us first,' the night crawlers insisted, and he carried them to Nana in the rear of the garden where it was so hot._

_"Are you sure you got the right ones?" Nana asked. "They have to be hungry. Put them here to eat these."_

_He was kneeling beside her. That was when he saw that the ground beneath her hands was full of plump, white maggots. Her fingers touched the maggots. Her fingers were the maggots. He put the night crawlers where she told him to, though by now they were definitely snakes, then looked at her, and she looked at him. Her face was black, crusted, burned and desiccated by the heat in the garden until bone protruded from skin._

_"Don't stand around gawking, child!" she exclaimed. "You have work to do. There are too many doors, and hearths are for books."_

_"He has to let the bees sting first," the man said. The man was young, dark, and handsome, and there was something high and cold about the voice. Indeed, as he looked away from the man, bees began to gather about his left arm, stinging a snake into the skin._

_"You'll be rid of that one when you clean the mantel," Nana told him calmly. "That kind never could stand a good cleaning. I always wanted to be in back. Room for two in front. Kitchen? Enough to graze sheep in."_

_"You are in the way!" the man shrilled._

_"I've said my piece." Nana turned her charred face to him. "Stay still. That one will want you on your knees."_

_He raised his eyes to the strange, dark young man. A wand pointed at him and Nana…_

Snape woke abruptly, struggling to cry out a warning to his grandmother and encountering only dark stillness. He felt as if something heavy was pressing on his chest, preventing him from sitting up. _The Dark Lord!_ he thought in a panic. _I saw a young man, but I heard the Dark Lord!_

As the seconds ticked by, Snape began to realize that he'd been dreaming, and a memory from the past tickled him into the understanding that the dream was important. Before half a minute had passed, he was able to move again, and his movement carried him downstairs to paper and pencil, and the rapid noting down of what he had dreamed.

Snape knew what the dream was about. The fact that his grandmother had visited him to impart the information personally was miraculous, the lifting of a weight from his shoulders and heart. The fact that her face was burned had not frightened him in the dream. Nor had the maggots. He knew she was dead, and how, and it did not bring fear. That, too, was miraculous. He paused and looked at his notes:

1) Get rid of a door

2) Hearth part of library – kitchen too big as is

3) Master bedroom in back

4) Twin bedrooms in front

It was only afterwards that the other message hit Snape. _We left one of Hagrid's memories in the purple flask on the mantel. It's been there for a week. Is the Dark Lord growing in it?_

Staggering up from the table, Snape hurried into the front room. The purple soulstone coffin stood accusingly on the mantel. _How could we have forgotten?_ Snape thought. _We weren't doing anything except watching a health inspector and checking out a small orchard. Not enough to warrant forgetting him!_

Now Snape faced a quandary. If Hagrid's memory had absorbed some of the residual Voldemort, he certainly did not want to leave it in the soulstone flask any longer than absolutely necessary. On the other hand, he didn't want to encounter the Dark Lord in a memory alone. Potter said the memory Voldemort had been aware of him, as if he were a pensieve image like Snape himself. Meeting the Dark Lord in a pensieve as an equal was somewhat beyond Snape's understanding of his job description. Not to mention frightening.

He did, however, have the option of storing the memory outside the flask. Taking out his wand, Snape extracted the wisp of thought from the flask and placed it in the nearby pensieve. Now, at least, the residue of the Dark Lord wouldn't get any stronger. The question was what to do next.

In all seriousness, getting backup wasn't an option. The memory could, if necessary, remain in the pensieve or in one of the vials brought by Harry and Hagrid indefinitely, and Snape couldn't bear to send Nelson either back to Scotland or south to the more confusing wilds of London if it wasn't a matter of life and death. (Or fairy eggs at the new moon, naturally.) He stared for a while at the silver filament floating in the basin, then very practically got up and began to fix breakfast. The breakthrough thoughts come most easily when you're not concentrating on the problem.

It is probable that if Snape had ever owned a pensieve himself, he would have arrived at the solution instinctively. He hadn't owned one. He'd only borrowed one from Dumbledore for the purpose of temporarily storing a few thoughts. When Dumbledore was unexpectedly driven from Hogwarts, Snape had stored the pensieve away against his return and had never explored its possibilities. Snape was not, by nature, a snoop. His only other experience with the magical basins was as a disembodied entity using one for contact with the world.

It was the bacon sizzling in the pan that brought the solution to mind. _I don't have to enter the memory! I can watch it from outside!_

Snape ate breakfast first (this was out of respect to Hagrid, in case seeing the Dark Lord took his appetite away) and then went into the front room. The pensieve was on the low table by the sofa, so he sat on the sofa and touched the surface of the mist with his wand. A small, clear picture formed in the air above it. It was a place he would not have recognized as a student, but being on staff gave one access almost everywhere. Hagrid had chosen a memory of Hogwarts where it was guaranteed that Tom Riddle could not have gone. Snape was looking at the Gryffindor common room in the 1940s.

Not certain what he was looking for, Snape let the teenage Hagrid of the memory study while Snape examined the people in the background. Exploring a pensieve memory, he quickly decided, was much more fruitful from inside. Outside, one didn't have the freedom to move around and examine things closely. Another problem was that Snape didn't really know what the teenage Tom Riddle had looked like. Quite a few of the students had dark hair. Snape tried to see if the insignia on their robes was from Gryffindor or – if the Dark Lord was there – from Slytherin.

And there, standing in a corner watching the scene with a look of surprised horror on his face, was the young man from his dream, the young man with the high, cold voice who had told Nana she was in the way, who had wanted the bees to sting the dark mark into his arm. Snape tried to identify the house badge on his robes, failed, then touched the surface of the pensieve to see if he could bring the image closer. It worked. The young man, fifteen or sixteen years old, floated solitary above the basin, while the rest of the common room subsided into the mist. He was, indeed, wearing a Slytherin badge.

"Well, well," Snape said out loud to himself. "So that's what you were like before you were what you were. Quite frankly, I don't think you traded up."

The figure hovering over the pensieve turned and looked straight at Snape, who dropped his wand in shock. It mouthed something that Snape interpreted as 'Who are you?' but no sound came out. Retrieving his wand, Snape touched the image and it dissolved into the thought thread. Only then did he realize that he was trying to shut down, but couldn't.

A multitude of thoughts, none of them pleasant, raced through Snape's mind as he hurried to the kitchen for a vial to put the memory into. Foremost was a panicky fear. _Why can't I shut down? Does this mean I'm no longer an occlumens? He's in there, and he's like me. What happens if I have to go in and meet him? Does he have a wand? He's stronger than I am. How can I fight him if I can't shut down?_

The sight of the plans for rebuilding the cottage calmed him down. He was acting like an idiot. _Why would I ever have to go into that memory? Once it's in a vial…_ That thought spurred Snape to action again since he didn't want Essence of Dark Lord in the pensieve longer than necessary. He grabbed a vial, returned to the front room, and placed the memory in it. He then took both memories, his earlier one and Hagrid's, into the kitchen and labeled them.

Then he had a cup of tea to settle his nerves.

After two cups of tea, the plans for the cottage were still there in front of Snape, and he decided to concentrate on them in the hope that it might help him stop thinking so much about the memory in the vial. He picked up the notes he'd made from the dream conversation with Nana.

_It's quite true. Why do I need two doors? If I eliminate both the main entrance on the west side and the rear entrance through the kitchen and have one door more or less in the center of the east wall…_ That would eliminate the awkward little room that intruded into the front room, making the front room larger and more symmetrical. Then by having the stairs to the upper story start in the kitchen and go up the interior of the west wall, while at the same time reducing the size of the kitchen, he could insert the library between kitchen and front room with the hearth forming the south wall of the library. The new library would be large enough for a reading chair, table, and lamp.

Nana was right about the bedrooms, too. The front of the house was wide enough for two little bedrooms. The stairs in the back still left room for the master bedroom, a sizable landing, and the bathroom in the middle of the east side. With the exception of having a smaller kitchen – and it would still be quite big – everything else in the house became larger, and he added a room. It was a matter of reducing the amount of wasted space.

He had it. Snape stared at the floor plans and knew that he would never be able to improve on what was there, not with the awkward placement of the hearth, the fireplaces, and the chimney. Now that he had the plan, however, he found himself face to face with a whole new problem. _It won't be the same house. It won't be like it was when Nana was here. How can I betray Nana like this?_

True, earlier that morning he'd reacted to the dream as if it were Nana herself speaking to him. Now, in the clear light of nearly noon, he knew that it was probably only his subconscious mind working out a problem he'd been wrestling with for days. The crux of the dilemma was that once he started the reconstruction, it would be permanent. This was no jury-rigged, magical stopgap he was planning. Snape was going to build his own home the old-fashioned way. Or at least as close to the old-fashioned way as he could get and not have the job last months.

Snape rose and paced around the kitchen, then up the stairs to the floor above, and then down again to the unfinished library and the front room. What he was weighing was the need for a stable home against the need to preserve what he could of Nana. Had he gotten a message from her, or was it his own wishful thinking? Whichever path he took ran the risk of being wrong.

In the front room, Snape's eye fell on the purple soulstone flask. He stopped abruptly and stared at it. He had, he realized, another piece of information to fit into the puzzle, and that was the Dark Lord. Whatever Dumbledore may or may not have shown Harry Potter, he had never let Snape see his pensieve memories of the young, and not so young, Tom Riddle. Snape had no knowledge of the Dark Lord's appearance other than his own experience through the personal interviews he'd had. Snape did not know what Tom Riddle looked like before he was Voldemort.

And yet he'd seen him. He'd seen the Dark Lord in a dream, and the same person had appeared in Hagrid's memory augmented by the soulstone flask. How could that be unless the dream were some sort of externally inspired message? The thought made him feel infinitely better. If the Dark Lord was not a projection of his own psyche, then maybe Nana wasn't either. The presence of the Dark Lord in the dream was evidence that Nana – not Snape but Nana – had been there as well.

Snape had to talk to someone. He couldn't talk to Hagrid or Potter, so he rushed from the cottage, remembering to bring his drawings of the floor plans, took his bicycle, and rode into the village. Gordon Roach knew about lumber. He would speak first – on a purely business basis, of course – to Gordon Roach.

Weetsmoor was, as usual, quiet and peaceful, with not a soul on the road. Snape parked his bike outside Roach's shop and went in, finding the shopkeeper snoozing in a chair behind his counter. After a moment's hesitation, Snape exited the shop, then reentered, making certain that the bell over the door rang loudly. Roach snorted, opened his eyes, and sat up.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Snape. How may I help you?" Roach rose and came around the counter, for a customer took precedence over a nap.

"I… was wondering if I could… consult with you about an order," Snape said, silently cursing the reappearance of his childhood stammer and wondering if it had anything to do with Nana. "I have some ideas about the… cottage, but I'm not sure how it translates into… construction."

Roach looked the plans over carefully. "I see you have everything to scale," he commented, "and you've allowed for the width of the walls and the way doors open, and the upstairs plumbing's aligned with the downstairs plumbing… Do you have a septic system?"

"Why does everyone keep asking about a septic system?" Snape complained. "I'm a… you know. I can take care of it."

"It's just that you need to submit something like this to the authorities for approval…"

"You put me in front of any authority figure, and I'll have him rubber-stamping this in thirty seconds." Snape stated flatly. "I'll worry about the authorities. What do I need to accomplish this, and is it workable?"

"I think it's workable, but I'd…" Roach glanced around. "This needs talking over, not just advice in a shop. It's noon. There's no one coming in for hours. Would you like to join me in a pint at the local where we can spread this out and really look at it?"

"I'd be delighted," said Snape.

The public house was not on the main road. This helped keep it 'local,' since the walking tourists, while not above downing a pint, tended to prefer doing so in the bar at the inn. Roach entered first with Snape in tow. Snape was thankful that he already knew something of pubs from his home town and, while still rather awkward about the social side of it, was not totally a fish out of water.

Snape's entrance caused a mild sensation, for there was a slowing of conversation, a glance or two toward the door, and a couple of raised eyebrows. Roach's presence was the bridge. "Afternoon, Gordon," said the pub keeper, who tended his own bar in the afternoon and hired a girl for the evenings. Other greetings were murmured around.

"Afternoon, Bertie," replied Roach. "I got a neighbor gracing your establishment for the first time. This here's Richard Snape. Mr. Snape, this is Albert Morley."

As Snape reached across the bar to shake hands, Morley grinned and said, "Bill wasn't half right when he said there was a family resemblance. I think I'd have known you anywhere."

"Morley?" said Snape in return. "I may know more than one generation. Would you by chance have a young grandson named Jack?"

"I would at that," Morley grinned. "I hope the wee scapegrace hasn't been causing you problems."

"Nary a one," Snape replied. "I merely conducted an experiment – at his request, mind you – on his ears."

"That would have been 'bout a week ago, I take it," said Morley. "Bill hinted the boy was impressed about something. What can I offer you to welcome you to the village?"

"We were talking about having a pint. I'm not particular." Snape looked around as Roach presented him to more of the patrons, all men in their sixties or seventies, maybe half a dozen in all. Snape already knew Gordon Roach, Fred Allsop, and Sam Logan. He'd just met Albert Morley, and was now introduced to Ernie Hackett, Oscar Wainwright, and Charlie Latimer. "Pigs," he said as he shook hands with Hackett, "I have business to discuss with you…" and "By any chance the chicken farmer?" to Wainwright, for which he received the reply, "Nah, that's my mother."

"I hear you've gotten in tight with my son and his wife," was Latimer's comment as they greeted each other. "Hugh's a bit skimpy with gossip, though, so I'm pleased to meet you in person."

There was an awkward pause at that point, for none of them was sure of the best way to carry on. Then Snape glanced around at the walls. "Darts," he said, nodding at the board. "Some friends of my father's tried to show me how to play, but I was never really good at it."

"I could teach you all the fine points," said Allsop, "if you got a good eye and a good hand."

A dart competition was quickly set up at which Snape immediately demonstrated his almost total incompetence at the game. "I'll wager you could do better if you really wanted to," said Hackett, retrieving one of Snape's darts from the wainscoting next to the target.

Snape's eyes flicked around the room. "You mean like this?" he said, slipping his wand into his left hand and spotting three darts into the bull's eye in rapid succession. "I suppose I could, but it wouldn't really be me doing it, now would it?"

Hackett grinned, for an exhibition was what he'd been hoping for. "We've got to set up a game with that lot at Foulridge," he suggested. "Piece of cake."

They settled around a table in the corner of the pub, and there was another awkward pause. After a moment, Logan said, "We're it, you know. We're the center of the group that went out to the cottage that night. Except for Williams – he's been dead these ten years – and Carter, who died two years ago. I guess we owe you a debt."

"I heard," said Snape, sipping at his pint of beer, "that you already paid ten years of it."

"That was to the courts," Logan replied, "not to you. We know, you see, because young Hugh told us. You're the grandson."

"I'm a bit young," Snape said.

"That's the way of things," Logan countered. "Age… it kind of flows like a river, eddying here and there. What you look like, and what you are… that's two different things. You said you'd tell me."

Snape sighed. "There's a magic spell," he told the group, an audience that hung on his every word, "called an Imperius curse. When it's cast on you, you'll do anything the caster asks you to do. And you'll believe that you initiated the action; you won't remember that someone else told you to do it. A group of wizards cast this spell on you to make you burn the cottage down. When it was over, you thought it was your idea, but it was really imposed on you by wizards."

"How do you know?" Logan whispered.

"I overheard them talking about it a couple of years later," Snape answered him. "The ones who cast the spell… They didn't want me to find out about it, but I happened to be there outside the door. I was listening, and I heard them. You were enchanted. I know whose fault it was. It wasn't yours."

Logan seemed to simply collapse inward upon himself in relief, as if this were the answer to his prayers. Allsop and some of the others, however, pressed the issue.

"Why her? Why would they want us to kill her? What was she to these people of yours?"

"Nothing," Snape responded. "She wasn't anything to them. They wanted me. I knew potions – medicines and poisons – and I knew how to make new spells. They wanted me, and in order to get me they had to frighten me, make me feel that I was in danger. I was seventeen, and they hit me through Nana… through Mrs. Prince. It was more than two years later that I realized what had really happened… when I overheard…"

"So you really are older. Why do you have to look so young? Why the disguise?"

Snape looked around at the faces, but saw no real hostility. They wanted answers, but they would accept the answers if they understood them. He had to make them comprehensible. "I'm a clone," he said, "like that sheep Dolly. I have a young body and an older mind. The old body was killed, but they managed to save the thoughts and now I'm young and older at the same time. The body's seventeen, more or less, but the mind's thirty-eight."

"I heard about that sheep," said Hackett, and at that moment the resemblance between him and the boy Wally could not have been more pronounced. "It was an old sheep made young again. Something to do with that DNA."

"I remember," Latimer concurred. "They took something from one and made a copy of her. I don't recall as they duplicated the mind, though."

"That was special to us," Snape told them. "We have ways of preserving thoughts. Believe me, I thought I was dead, but they kept the thoughts alive and put them in the cloned body. I didn't want it, but they didn't give me a choice."

"They don't never give a man a choice," spat out Logan. "You work 'til you drop, and they bury you without a thought. You got no choice where you live, and you got no choice where you work. It's all one. The bosses choose, and the laborer gets what they choose for him."

"That's what I said," said Snape. "They kept telling me I was wrong, but I know what's what."

"You're darn right!"

"Now Sam," Allsop pointed out, "you know you've had plenty of choosing in your life. Who decided to plant those trees out there?"

"Mystery to me," Logan said flatly. "They just up and started growing on their own. Why would I plant apple trees?"

"But you've been harvesting them all these years," put in Wainwright. "We just thought after you got back from… we assumed…"

"When I got back, they were already growing. I figured somebody planted them for me, and that person didn't want to be known. I don't look gift horses in the mouth." Logan looked around at the puzzled faces. "Did you ever know that land to be good for anything except grazing sheep?" he demanded. "Why would I plant anything there?"

"But…" Snape ventured, "the apples are doing quite well there. If the soil isn't right…"

"Don't ask me," Logan said. "They came up from seed, and they must have already been there at least three years because they started bearing fruit right when I got back."

"What type are they?"

Logan shrugged. "Apples. They don't breed true from seed, so they may not even have a name. I just know they were never grafted."

Snape shook his head. Wand quality apple trees complete with bowtruckles that seemed to have seeded themselves in inhospitable soil. It was another mystery about the village that bore thinking about.

The door opened and another man came in, a younger man, probably in his late twenties, with honey-colored hair and green eyes flecked with gold. The most notable thing about him was that he wore a plain, stiff white collar threaded through the neck of his black shirt. Allsop leaned over and whispered to Snape, "Tread careful. Bible thumper." Then he nodded to the newcomer. "Good afternoon, Mr. Davidson. We don't usually see you this early in the week."

"I came to check on the leak in the roof," said the young man, "and thought I'd drop in for a pint. I'm not intruding, I hope."

"No, no. Not at all," the assembled men assured him good-humoredly. "You'd be wanting to meet the newest member of your flock, Vicar," added Wainwright. "This young man is Mr. Richard Snape, who's taken the Prince place just west of here."

"Pleased to meet you," said Davidson, extending a hand which Snape rose and shook. "I'm not a vicar, though. I'm just the team curate, and I hold services in the chapel Saturday evening and Sunday morning. I hope to see you there." He paused. "You'll forgive me, but… well I'm certain Mr. Morley has checked that you… You just seem rather young…"

"Don't you worry." Morley clapped the curate on the back. "I wouldn't be risking my license. He's of age."

"Well, that's all right, then," said the curate.

There was an awkward pause, then Wainwright said, "Would you join us, Reverend? Gordon here's brought Mr. Snape in to meet some of his new neighbors, and we're just getting acquainted. Seems as good a time as any for you to get acquainted, too."

"That's very kind of you." Davidson pulled another chair over, and room was made for him between Wainwright and Hackett. "I'm serious about the invitation to services. I keep trying to get this lot to come, and a couple of them do, from time to time."

"I'm going to have to confess," admitted Snape, "that I've hardly ever been in a church, and never for services. I was raised something of an… agnostic." He was relieved to have remembered the word. Religion wasn't big in Snape's upbringing.

"Then you'll fit right in," said Davidson. "There's not a lot of formal religious education around here. It fits the chapel, too. It's a 17th century, nonconformist chapel that was used at different times by Puritans, early Methodists, and even a couple of unaffiliated evangelical groups. When our team started coming here two years ago, it had been closed for more than a decade and a half."

"Really?" said Snape with admirable calm. "Closed nearly twenty years ago? Why would that have happened?"

"A drop-off of interest as much as anything," Davidson answered, accepting his pint from Morley, who stayed by the table to listen. "Though there are one or two local legends about curses…"

"Curses!" Snape could hardly conceal his delight, then decided he didn't have to conceal it. "Why would anyone curse such a lovely old landmark?"

"An odd thing, especially for the seventies. Something about not burying a witch in consecrated soil. I don't have all the details, but burial was denied to a local woman, the congregation fell on hard times, and within two years the chapel was abandoned. The local people went to Foulridge or Earby, or did without. 'Did without' seems to have been a popular choice."

"You got that right, padre," muttered Logan, but everyone else ignored him.

"So," Snape ventured, "you're C. of E.?

Davidson laughed. "I haven't heard it called that for a while, but yes, the team is Church of England. We Establishment johnnies have been getting our claws into all the choice property recently. Isn't that right, Mr. Logan?"

"I couldn't rightly say," replied Logan in a tone that indicated he'd had a lot to say about it on previous occasions.

"So you're not from around here." Snape's comment was less a question than a statement, an acknowledgement that the reverend was an outsider in terms of local history.

"It depends on how narrow 'around here' is. I live in Manchester. I get up here for services. This is my 'cure' though, as I am its curate. I'd like to get to know it better."

There is a way to ask a question without being so coarse as to actually ask it. "It must be difficult for you to have to drive up here and back Saturday evenings and then make the same trip again Sunday morning," Snape said, and sipped his beer.

"Thank goodness I don't have to do that." Davidson smiled at the thought. "The team's let a room with Mrs. Wainwright, and I lodge there when I have to overnight. Bed and board. It's good for us and a little income for her without being too much of a strain."

Snape looked at Wainwright. "Is that your…?"

"Mother. Yes." Wainwright chuckled. "She's eighty-four and hale as an ox."

The conversation trailed off a bit until Roach said, "Snape here's thinking of remodeling the cottage. I don't know if you'd want to show the sketches around…"

_Why not?_ Snape thought. _These may be the very men who'll build it._ He pulled out his plans, thankful that he taken care with the scale and the detail. "The problem is the hearth. It's massive, and it was once the south end of the building with this… and this… added later. But if I move this door here…"

There was a spirited discussion, during which the curate took his leave. "Remember," he told Snape, "Saturday evensong at five-thirty and Sunday Eucharist at ten. I hope to see you there."

"I'll keep it in mind," said Snape, who promptly forgot it in the complexities of his remodeling.

Very little of note occurred over the next couple of days except that several of the men Snape had met that afternoon came to inspect the cottage and argue over the material he would need. As speculation began to coalesce into actual plans, Snape began to worry again about betraying his grandmother in the altering of her home, and also to worry about whether or not he had enough money to do what everyone was now assuming he would do.

In the village, workmen came to replace the leaking chapel roof. Things seemed to be progressing in a satisfactory way until a little over an hour after Saturday evensong had ended (a service that Snape had forgotten all about). That evening, at exactly seven thirty-three, all hell broke loose.

'All hell,' in this particular case, consisted of the sudden explosion of a cacophony of noise. There were owl hoots and a horn honking. There were school bells and sheep baaing. Doors slammed, toilets flushed, robins and larks sang, and through it all the horrified residents of Weetsmoor heard snippets of their own voices raised in laughter, argument, sorrow, and frustration – the whole life of a village spilled out in a matter of twenty minutes – accented by barking dogs, breaking glass, wind and rain, slamming doors, clucking chickens, the peculiar note of Ernie Hackett's prize pig Lulu-Belle, and a Rolling Stones' concert blasted from a stereophonic sound system with four speakers and the bass jacked up to infinity.

And then there was silence.

Hugh Latimer got to Snape first.

"I'd like to say it came out of nowhere," the shaken constable confided over a medicinal glass of firewhisky, "but most everybody says it came from the church yard. Some are already saying it's a haunting. I can't say I don't agree. I've never heard anything like it."

"How's the village taking it?" Various scenarios had already raced through Snape's brain. He was pretty sure what he was dealing with.

"Nervous," Hugh replied, his own natural bent toward factual reporting buoyed by Snape's matter-of-fact tone. "Is this something of yours? I mean, like the funguses at the Ridleys and Sam's mantises?"

"It's possible," Snape said, unaware of how coy his voice sounded. "Has anyone seen little blue birds flying around the chapel recently?"

"You didn't put them there, did you?"

"Me? Why would I do a thing like that?"

"Sorry. Still, would you mind coming over and checking it?"

"Aren't you going to call in the police?"

"I am the police. Well, Nick and Tom are there, too, but nobody from 'outside.' Just us. I've got Fred's truck."

"I heard when you drove up." Snape thought for a moment, mostly about memory potions. _Where there's one, there's bound to be another._

xxxxxxxxxx

All in all, a few hundred souls lived in Weetsmoor, and most of them were in the street outside the chapel when Hugh edged the truck through. Quite a few of them stared openly at the dark young passenger with the long black hair and whispered amongst themselves. The older men came forward to greet Snape cordially – Ridley, Roach, Wainwright, Morley, Latimer Sr. – Allsop was still trying to calm his horses, and Hackett his hogs. Tourists from the inn were snapping photographs, and the smaller children were playing in the side lanes away from the press of people.

The chapel door opened, and Rev. Davidson came out with two constables, somewhat older than Hugh, who were presented to Snape as Nick Cranmer and Tom Ridley. Davidson was a little puzzled. "Did you hear it all the way out where you are?" he asked. "I didn't think it was quite that loud."

"I brought him, Pastor," said Hugh. "He may not look it, but he's an expert naturalist…"

"I've never heard an animal that sounded like that," the flustered Davidson interrupted. "I beg your pardon," he added in the pause that followed. "I'm not myself tonight. At any rate," he raised his voice slightly for the benefit of the surrounding listeners, "the constables and I have been through the entire chapel, and there's nothing there."

"Nothing you could see, you mean," called a man from the other side of the road, and heads nodded wisely around him.

"Have you looked on top of the building?" Snape asked, and such was the mystique attached to the late Mrs. Prince that a dozen electric torches were immediately trained on the chapel's roof.

"There's nothing there," called the man across the road.

"Nothing you could see, you mean," responded Snape with just a touch of snideness in his voice. "Reverend, do you happen to have a ladder?"

Davidson started to protest, "There's nothing…" but Bill and Tom Ridley were already carrying a ladder over from the grocer's shop. Snape walked into the church yard and around the chapel, shining Cranmer's electric torch upwards until he spied a small, squat structure on the rear corner. "What's that," he asked. "It isn't original, is it?"

"No," replied Davidson, who followed him and the men with the ladder. "It was put in during the nineteenth century. It's a little belfry. I don't know if there's a bell in it or not."

"You don't know?" Snape turned, his face starkly shadowed in the dark and the torchlight, for even in the summer evening, the sun was now down behind the hills and stars had appeared in the night sky. "Haven't you ever tried it?"

"I'd have loved to," was the rather bristly reply, "but to ring a bell you need some kind of pulling mechanism, and if there ever was one, it's no longer there. We've put a lot into the restoration of the building. The belfry is a bit low on the list."

"I see," said Snape, with a slight emphasis on the pronoun.

"I'm sure," responded Davidson in precisely the proper tone.

Snape directed the Ridleys to place the ladder so that he could reach the roof near the belfry. "What are you expecting to find?" Bill Ridley asked.

"A dead bird," Snape replied, "small, with bright speckled blue feathers." He glanced around at the somber faces. "Seriously," he insisted, "that's what I'm expecting. There'll be a bird up there. A little. Blue. Bird. And it'll be dead." He turned away from them and began climbing the ladder, Constable Cranmer's torch still in his hand. Those below watched him mount up to the roof and look around, and then heard the low moan, "Oh… no…"

"What is it?" Hugh cried. "What did you find?"

"It's stuck in the tar," Snape called back. "They tarred the roof and it got caught. It probably struggled for hours, more than a day, the poor thing. Then it died. That's what you heard."

"You know what it is?" asked Bill Ridley. "You know it made that noise?"

"Of course," Snape said, his voice loud enough to reach the entire mass of now silent watchers. "It's a jobberknoll. They're utterly silent their lives long, but when they die, they reproduce every sound they ever heard. This one must have been here for a few weeks. You just heard an instant replay of what it was listening to the whole time. That's all. Sorry there're no ghosts. Can someone send up a stout knife or a trowel? I'd like to cut it free and bury it with some respect."

The one who brought the trowel was young Wally Hackett, which gave Snape an idea. "Can you climb past me and peer into that belfry? I'm afraid this one had a nest and there may be nestlings. Don't worry," this last was a whisper just for the two of them, "I won't let you fall."

Wally took the electric torch, and Snape slipped his wand into his hand. The boy ventured out onto the edge of the roof to the ohs and ahs of the crowd below. The pitch of the roof was shallow, and Wally was able to crawl easily the short distance to the belfry structure while the curate below frantically urged him to return to the safety of the ladder, and his friends screamed encouragement of his daring.

"You're right, sir," Wally yelled back at Snape. "There's a nest here."

"Then we have a problem," said Snape. "Come on back, Wally."

"What were you thinking of?" the reverend Davidson cried as the two descended. "Sending a boy out onto a roof like that! He could have fallen and been killed!" He stepped to the foot of the ladder to confront Snape.

"I think you underestimate both Wally's self-confidence and his sense of balance," Snape said as Wally himself basked in the admiration of Jack Morley and his other friends. "He wasn't in any danger." The gathered crowd moved inward toward the dispute.

"That's hardly for you to determine," countered Davidson. "His parents, his family, at least someone more mature…" There was a tidal murmur in response, though which of the two was favored by the villagers could have been debated.

"Are you questioning my son's abilities?" Ernie Hackett's voice came from behind the curate. "I thought he did a bang-up job out there. I was proud of him."

"He might have fallen!"

"I don't think so. I think he was in excellent hands."

As pig farmer and pastor faced off, Snape started back up the ladder. "You two go ahead and fight," he said, "I have a funeral to think about, and a nest of orphans. Everyone else can go back home. The show's over." With the trowel, he began to dig at the still semi-soft tar that imprisoned the dead jobberknoll's delicate feet. _Such a waste,_ he thought, trying to ignore the argument below. _Such a harmless, beautiful bird_. He had to get Hagrid, but he wasn't sure how to do it.

"What's going to happen to the chicks?" Gillian Latimer asked him when Snape came back down with the dead jobberknoll, the proof of his accuracy, in his hands. "How long can young birds last without food? How long have they already been without food?"

"There must be another parent," Snape assured her. "I'm sure both parents tend the nest, though Hagrid would have the best information. I'm going to try to get hold of him at once."

Gillian looked down at the dead bird. "Was this the mother, or the father?" she asked.

"Haven't got a clue," Snape replied. "Have you ever been able to identify the sex of a small songbird? It's beyond me."

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_Sunday, July 18, 1999_

Sunday morning, a day of rest for most creatures in the British Isles, certainly at 5:30 am, saw a youngish wizard with long dark hair apparate into Hogsmeade and make his way to the Hogwarts gate with its stone boar sentinels. "Hagrid," the young wizard called in a low, plaintive tone. "Hagrid, I need you."

There was no response, for Hagrid was sound asleep a good five hundred yards away. "Hagrid…" Snape continued, though by now it was clear his voice would never get close to the half-giant, much less penetrate his slumber. Snape was beginning to glance around in trepidation. The moment the first village resident made an appearance, he would have to leave. Coming to Hogsmeade was a very dangerous exercise for young Mr. Snape.

Drawing his wand as a last resort, Snape decided to try a patronus. It had been a long while since he'd attempted a patronus – three years, in fact, since his last true one, and a year and a half since the new one. He wasn't sure he had a patronus to send. Wand clutched tightly in his right hand, he whispered the charm, and was gratified to see a small silver fox head southwest to Hagrid's hut. It was a success in every way, for a moment later Hagrid charged out of his hut towards the gate.

"What're you doing here?" Hagrid demanded as the clandestine Snape slipped through the gate. "Ya might've sent an owl, ya know."

"Yes," Snape replied, "but that would've taken ten hours to the great detriment of an owl. This couldn't wait."

"An' if you get caught?" Hagrid countered as they moved towards his hut. "Everyone here knows ya. Ya get spotted here 'n it's over. There ain't no way we could cover it."

"Hagrid, a jobberknoll died in Weetsmoor yesterday evening, a jobberknoll with a nest full of fledglings. I have to know how to care for them, and you're the only expert I have. I can't wait ten hours. The chicks could die in ten hours. Gad, I may already have waited too long… they could be dead now."

"Jobberknoll?" Hagrid focused at once on the crux of the problem. "What's a jobberknoll doing in a muggle village?"

"Dying," said Snape. "It had a nest in an ancient belfry on an unused chapel. Except the chapel's being used on the weekends, and the pastor needed to fix the roof. The repair involved tar, and the jobberknoll was trapped in it and died. There's a late nest with chicks not yet ready to fly. I need to know how to take care of them."

"That's mighty good o' ya," Hagrid began…

"What's good got to do with it?" Snape snapped at him. "A bird's dead. It and its chicks have feathers that are valuable potions ingredients. I'm looking out for myself."

"Right," said Hagrid, not inclined toward an argument before six in the morning. "As long as ya remember the hair of a half-giant is good f'r strengthening potions, I'm guaranteed a ripe old age."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Snape bristled, not realizing how closely he was repeating himself. "What's this got to do with you?"

"Just that I put more faith in yer self interest than in most folk's philanthropy. Ya don't need t' get yer knickers in a knot."

"I'm getting nothing in a knot!" Snape shrieked. "Will you help me with the birds!"

"I will if ya'll have breakfast with me," said Hagrid. "It's you get food down ya, or I don't help with the birdies. Deal?"

"Deal," Snape agreed, his heart clearly not in it. Then he brightened a bit. "You do have kippers, right? And coffee?"

"I got anything a house-elf can bring. The lads get bored in the summer as it is, an 'd be pleased as punch t' provide."

They were now in the hut, where Snape gave a full account of what had just happened in Weetsmoor. Like Snape himself (though he was now regaling himself with not only kippers and coffee, but also with eggs Benedict and mango juice) Hagrid was concerned about the sudden concentration of magical creatures.

"That's three we know of so far, right?" Hagrid enumerated them on his great fingers. "There's the bundimuns in Ridley's grocery, the bowtruckles in Logan's orchard, an' now the jobberknolls in the chapel belfry. Where's they all coming from?"

"I haven't got a clue," said Snape, his mouth full of kippered herring, "but it's been bothering me, too. It's a muggle village. It shouldn't have all these magical creatures in it. Want to know the worst?"

"How bad can it get?" Hagrid helped himself to the fare that Snape was feasting on.

"Pretty bad. You remember Logan's orchard? Turns out he didn't plant it. Never lifted a finger. While he was in jail for ten years, that orchard up and planted itself from seed. When he got out, it was right at the point of bearing fruit. Just in time. Like it was waiting for him."

"Really?" said Hagrid. "What was he doing in jail f'r ten years?"

"He killed my grandmother," Snape replied. "Could I have another cup of coffee?"

Hagrid forbore to comment as he refilled the cup. There was clearly nothing that needed to be discussed. "There's bound to be another," he pointed out. "There's always a nesting pair."

"But it'll tire quickly with all those chicks, and they're big now, they need a lot of food."

"How many are there?"

"I didn't see them. Wally did. Maybe four. They're inside the belfry. It's pretty small – you'll see when you get there." Snape stood up from the table. "We should go now, shouldn't we?"

The two had hardly gotten a hundred feet from Hagrid's hut when Hagrid stopped and moved to block Snape's path. "What's wrong with you!" Snape yipped, for Hagrid had nearly stepped on his toes, but then he peered around Hagrid's coat and saw that two Hogsmeade residents were chatting in the road near the gate. Hagrid might be able to get out that way, but Snape couldn't. "What are we going to do now?" Snape asked.

"Don't rightly know," Hagrid said. "Can't apparate from here. I could put ya in a sack n' carry ya out like potatoes, but somehow I doubt ya'd approve."

"No," said Snape, "I wouldn't. Try something else."

"We could go through the forest 'til we left school grounds 'n apparate there."

"Isn't there a wall, or a fence, or something?" Snape remembered his one major excursion into the forest looking for Potter and Umbridge. He didn't want a repeat of that experience. "We could wait here until those people leave."

"Y're getting t' be a scaredy cat, ain't ya?" Hagrid chuckled. "We're going through the forest. I'll protect ya. Ya'll have a chance t' say hello t' Grawp."

"How far do we have to go?" Snape asked as he followed Hagrid back past the hut and into the trees.

"Not very. That's why ol' Dumbledore, he always told the students how bad the forest was. Wanted t' keep 'em from exploring 'n finding out the east side o' Hogwarts weren't protected. Except by the centaurs, o' course. Sly he was… very sly."

As they walked, Snape kept turning around to see what the route looked like going in the other direction. He wanted to memorize the trees, but he couldn't see how he'd ever be able to tell one from the other. When they reached the point where they left Hogwarts (at least that's what Hagrid assured him) Snape said, "All right, just exactly where is your hut from here?"

Hagrid indicated the direction. Snape backed a few paces away, facing towards Hagrid's hut, then picked up a few small stones and piled them in front of him. It wasn't big – it didn't have to be – but it was just enough to give him a clear memory of the place.

"What's that for?" Hagrid asked.

"If I can apparate away from here," Snape explained, "then I can apparate to here. And if I remember this exact scene, I'll apparate in and be facing your hut. I have no intention of coming up here just to get lost in the forest."

"That makes sense," said Hagrid, and the two popped out of the forest and into Snape's garden in Lancashire.

The Reverend Davidson was a bit surprised when he opened the chapel doors at a quarter to ten that morning to see young Mr. Snape walking down the road into the village, neatly dressed and apparently heading for Sunday service. Others noticed as well, and by the time the service started, there were nearly thirty people assembled in the congregation, the most Davidson had ever had on a single Sunday.

Snape admitted freely, as he had in the pub, that his knowledge of the ways of the Church of England was practically nonexistent. Fortunately, there was a book he could follow, and Bill Morley, who sat near him in a distinctly proprietary manner, told him the pages to turn to for the different readings and prayers. It was rather easy, in fact. Snape stood when others stood, sat when they sat, read when they read, and listened when they listened. The only awkward parts were the kneeling – but as not everyone did that, Snape followed those who didn't – and the going forward for communion. Snape even whispered to Morley at that point, "What do I do?"

"Are you baptized and confirmed?" Morley asked.

Snape shook his head, vaguely aware what the terms meant, and positive they did not apply to him.

"Then you do nothing," Morley told him. "You just sit here."

"Good," said Snape, "I can do that."

After the service, Snape got the tour. It wasn't a long tour, since the curate had to go to another church in his district, but Snape got a good idea of the lay of the land. The chapel was small and boxy, with ancient pews that one entered through little gates along the single aisle. It had been built for a service that was mostly lessons and a long sermon, with a commemorative rather than a sacramental communion perhaps four times a year, and so there was no original altar. The table-shaped altar that was added in the front later was small and the space around it cramped. There was also no entry space, no vestibule; the doors opened right into the one room of the meeting-house. Meeting house was probably a good word for it, since the same place served for village meetings if there was something important to discuss.

One of the things Snape ascertained during his short time with the curate was that the belfry had no internal connection to the building. It was meant only to contain a small bell, and any ringing mechanism there had ever been most likely consisted of a long rope that one pulled from the ground outside.

Then the reverend Davidson took his leave, drove off in his modest car, and set the stage for the next eagerly anticipated act in the drama. The villagers were not disappointed either, for the next act was Hagrid.

A few lucky souls benefited directly from Hagrid's appearance, the top ones being Wally and Jack. Wide eyes, open mouths, a long whistle, and a 'Bloody hell!' that was the mate of Ron Weasley's were evidence that Wally and Jack's account had been scoffed at. Now vindicated, the two were forward in greeting the enormous newcomer, and were rewarded with the offhand salutation, "Hey there, Wally. Jack. How're the ears?" that cemented their newly raised status.

Hagrid's few previous visits had been at times when most of the residents of Weetsmoor were either out of the village at work or in the village but having supper. Hagrid acknowledged the people he knew – Ridley, Allsop, Logan, and the Hugh Latimers, who had not attended the church service, but now arrived having followed the unusual amount of hubbub. Hugh and Gillian found Snape in the churchyard.

"Are you sure this is wise?" Hugh asked, stepping out of the way to let Ridley put up his ladder.

"After last night," Snape sighed, "I doubt anything could make it worse. What's an ordinary giant after a bird that broadcasts a Stones' concert?"

"He's a giant?" Hugh glanced over at Hagrid. "I know he's big… very big… Is that what a giant's like?"

"No, Snape assured him. "That was more a figure of speech. Real giants are a lot bigger."

"Right. 'Real' giants," said Hugh. "I'm sorry I asked."

Hagrid sat down on one of the larger grave monuments and began to fish in his knapsack, only to pause as Mrs. Ridley came over with a tray of sandwiches. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, taking one, and the churchyard turned into a large picnic site as others brought over food and drink, the better to enjoy the show. From the south end of the street, the tourists who'd watched the action of the previous evening again arrived to gawk.

"This could be awkward," Gillian said to Snape, pointing them out.

Snape slipped his wand into his hand. "Watch this," he murmured. "Instantly fogged film."

"They can still talk," she whispered.

"Let them," Snape said. "On your side, no one will believe them because they can't prove it, and on my side the Ministry won't even learn about it because fogging film isn't a memory spell. It'll register there as a minor light spell. If we save the jobberknolls, I'll be able to do memory magic without even casting a spell."

Gillian stepped away, a sudden chill in her manner. "You mean you can make something that will erase a person's memory? I don't think I like that."

"No, no," Snape hastily assured her. "Jobberknoll feathers are for enhancing memory. Forgetfulness potions are a totally different thing. I'm not erasing memories, I swear."

"You'd better not," Gillian warned.

By this time Hagrid, having finished several of Mrs. Ridley's sandwiches, pulled some jars out of his knapsack. He also pulled out a couple of round glass plates that resembled Petri dishes. "Here," he called to Jack, "ya got t' put these on the roof near the belfry."

Jack rushed over, thrilled that it was him instead of Wally. "What do I do?" he demanded.

"Set these up there in some place that's flat enough so 's they don't fall down. I'll send Wally up with a couple o' jars, and ya got t' put about a spoonful o' what's in them jars into each dish. It ain't nothing bad, just worms n' bugs n' such."

The two boys worked well as a team, with Snape going up at the end to be sure all was in order. The purpose of the dishes was to provide the remaining jobberknoll parent with a source of food for the fledglings that wouldn't require it to consume an unnecessary amount of energy in feeding the young. That way, it was hoped, both chicks and adult bird would survive and thrive.

"All right," said Snape at the luncheon that followed, with both him and Hagrid as guests, Al Morley having brought out his sturdiest bench for Hagrid, "what's this baptized and confirmed thing?" He felt unaccountably nervous and stressed.

He was interrupted by a crow from Hagrid. "You ain't heard o' that? Even I heard o' that!"

"Where?" Snape demanded. "Where'd you hear about that?"

"From m' father, so there!" Hagrid chuckled. "Half muggle 'n ain't never heard o' baptism. I'll bet Hermione's got ya beat on that point!"

"Just for your information, I never said I hadn't heard about it, though I am surprised you have. I could have wagered good money it wasn't from your mother's side, but I'm almost as shocked to find it on your father's." Snape turned to Ridley. "It's a prerequisite, I take it."

"It's a ceremony," intervened Allsop quickly, "an initiation, like. Into the religion. It doesn't hurt. They just put water on your head in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

Snape almost smiled. "Holy Ghost?" he repeated. "I've known a lot of ghosts in my life, but there isn't one of them I'd call holy."

The men grew quiet. After a moment, Roach spoke. "You don't really respect religion, do you? Maybe they're right. Maybe your people really do follow…"

"What do you mean, 'my people' in that tone of voice?" Snape interrupted. "I'll have you know my father was an ordinary working man just like you. He worked in a mill, and he worked in a mine, and he married an extraordinary woman. But he ruled in his own roost, and if he'd thought religious mumbo-jumbo was worth anything, he'd've taught it to me. But he didn't. And that didn't have anything to do with magic, so don't throw this 'your people' rot at me!"

Roach rose, but Latimer Sr. pulled him back down. "He's right, you know, Gordon. How big is this community and how many of us go to church of a Sunday? How often do you go? How many of the boys and girls here'd have as hard a time telling you about baptism?"

"It's just ungodly," Roach protested.

"And we live in ungodly times," said Allsop. "There's no call to go blaming any one person for it."

Hagrid cleared his throat. "I thought ya was always popping down t' London t' buy books on religions 'n such."

"I was, but you know something? Not one of them ever adequately explained why children and small birds have to die…" Snape paused. "I apologize, gentlemen. I think the jobberknoll, rather than religion, is what's troubling me." He glanced around the table. "If," he ventured, "I wanted to go to one person in this village for instruction in religion, who would I go to?"

That brought a profound silence. Clearly the men had trouble thinking of a single one.

After a while, Hackett asked Latimer, "Your daughter-in-law… Gillian… is she Church of Scotland or Presbyterian?"

"Presbyterian, I think," said Latimer Sr. "I remember Hugh once mentioning her love of sermons. He wasn't too enthusiastic as I recall."

"It isn't the theology I'm interested in," Snape explained. "It's more the behavior and mannerisms. What's the correct way to do the cross thing, for example?"

That started a discussion since it turned out that each of the men had a different way of holding his right hand when he made the sign. "Yes," Snape kept insisting, "but what's the official way?" and when none of them could tell him, he made an internal resolve to corner the reverend Davidson on the following Sunday and find out.

One result of so much debate was that it tended to dry the throat, leading to pints all around and eventually a game of darts. Hagrid, while usually not averse to any kind of drinking, paced himself with admirable restraint, keeping a close eye on Snape all the while. He had fond memories of evenings at Hogwarts when McGonagall would surreptitiously replenish Snape's glass, since it was well known among the staff that the potions master mellowed and expanded remarkably when he was tipsy. At the first sign that this was happening, Hagrid intervened.

"Ya got something brewing back at the cottage as needs tending, Professor," he said as the second dart game came to an end. "We'd best be moving on."

The older men agreed that hanging around the local was not the proper way to pass a fine Sunday afternoon, and the gathering broke up. Snape insisted on going first into the church yard to look up at the belfry, and was rewarded by the sight of a flash of blue moving between the slats and the little dishes of food. "I'll fill them again tomorrow," he promised Hagrid.

Once back at the cottage, Snape took the little box where he'd laid the dead jobberknoll, and he and Hagrid took the bird out to the garden and buried it next to the great flat stump where they'd watched the memory that had drawn Voldemort from the purple flask – which reminded Snape to tell Hagrid about the second memory. Then Hagrid returned to Hogwarts, and Snape spent the rest of the day working on the bundimun cleanser.

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	8. Chapter 8 – What's in the Belfry? 2

**STORY NUMBER TWO: What's in the Belfry? – Part 2**

_Monday, July 19, 1999_

_He sat near the back of the room, aware that his school uniform was too big. The sleeves covered his hands. He pushed them back, but they just kept covering his hands. "Richard," the teacher said, and everyone looked towards the back of the room. He looked back, too, but there was no one behind him. "That's all right, Richard," the teacher said, "if you can tell us the capital of England." There were letters of the alphabet around the upper part of the wall of the classroom, and they began to dance, two Ls first with the A, B, and C close behind. He knew it was going to spell Blackpool, and he was about to say Blackpool, when a boy with glasses and a scar who was sitting next to him said, "Monkshood or wolfsbane. It has all three names, and a bezoar can protect you from it." It was the girl with the bushy brown hair sitting next to the boy that said, "London."_

_He glared down at the girl, his wand in his hand. "Nobody likes an insufferable know-it-all," he told her, but she only laughed. "Better to know it all than to have to say you don't know. Blackpool. How ignorant." The teacher smiled her horrible, pitying smile. "You did say, 'Blackpool,' didn't you? You can wear the dunce cap."_

_They faced each other at the front of the classroom, two teachers. "I'm not a fool," he told her. "I know about London. My bank's in London." She continued to smile pityingly. "That wasn't my question," she said. "Only the answer to the question counts."_

"_That's right, Snivellus," Sirius Black said. "And the question is, how many Slytherins does it take to fight one werewolf?" The teacher patted Sirius on the head and said, "Good boy!" Sirius grinned. He wanted to push Sirius's nose down his throat, but he couldn't because he didn't know the answer to the question. "There is no answer to the question," Sirius told him. "No quantity of Slytherins has ever been able to stand up to one werewolf." "I did," he told Sirius. "You cheated," Sirius sneered. "You had help."_

_There was an explosion behind him. "Longbottom!" he screamed as he turned toward the chaos. It was obviously Longbottom's fault because Longbottom was standing in the broken cauldron, smoke and debris all around. He advanced on the boy, who cowered in front of him, and then he was holding a belt in his hand and his mother was screaming, "Toby! He's just a boy! Toby!" He dropped the belt because he wanted to explain to his mother that Longbottom was always messing things up just to create trouble._

_He never had a chance to say anything, for Longbottom began to make noises. He laughed and cried and shrieked and howled, and then began to bellow, "But he can't be a man 'cause he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me!" "Help Neville!" he shouted, trying to pull Longbottom's feet from the tar. "Neville's trapped! Neville's going to die!"_

_Even with Hermione helping, it was too late. Neville's speckled blue feathers were cold and lifeless. He held little Neville in his hand. "I have to dig a grave," he told Hagrid. "The tar… It didn't have a chance… Such a tragedy…" Blue feathers slipped through his fingers and fell into the churchyard. "It's only a bird," Gillian said…_

Snape woke in the predawn darkness, breathing heavily and drenched with perspiration. The first thing he looked at was his hands, trying to determine if he was, indeed, holding a dead bird. Birds were so light, so delicate. Sometimes it was hard to be sure… Just as he couldn't be sure who was still alive. They'd told him about the aftermath of the battle, who lived and who didn't, but memory was such an elusive thing, and…

Memory struck with the force of an avalanche. Suddenly Snape's mind was rushing from scene to scene of the past – school rooms and tutoring sessions, combat training at headquarters and encounters in the staff room – any place where he'd used words to strike people, sometimes in self-defense, sometimes from weariness, and sometimes for the pure, mean, satisfaction of it… And they were dead now, beyond his ability to atone – Regulus and Colin, Fred and Lily, Remus and Nymphadora, Harry and Bella, Dumbledore and Hedwig, Charity and Nana and the jobberknoll and Neville…

Snape crawled out of bed, his hands clutching his temples, and staggered towards the stairs, the memories attacking like frenzied Harpies. He had to shut them behind the doors so he could bring them out one by one, but there were no doors. Or if there were doors, he'd lost the key. For all his life, from infancy, Snape had kept memories and thoughts locked in the chests and boxes of his mind. He had developed no other way of dealing with them. Now he was drowning.

The emerald flask… He could put the memories in the flask! Stumbling in the dark, Snape felt his way downstairs and into the front room where he groped along the mantel until he found the coffin-shaped bottle. With trembling hands he drew the first memory from his head and placed it inside. Then, without warning, the flask slipped from his fingers onto the carpet, and he split in two, the body collapsing limply to the floor, and the mind, now mercifully free of its memories, pooling in mist beside it.

Darkness dissolved into pale dawn, and dawn had glowed into sunrise before the tiny gray mist on the floor moved. It flowed unevenly across the rug towards the soulstone coffin and slipped inside. A moment later the sun's beam slanted across the floor of the room, reflecting in amethyst and lavender rays from the facets of the purple flask that lay there.

The tendril of thought lay unmoving against the stone of the overturned flask, but that did not mean that it was calm, quiescent, or emotionally passive. It was miffed. It was seriously miffed, and if it had had the visual images of memory to heighten its emotional state, it would have been peeved. This, it told itself in verbal silence, is not fair. Indeed, the sense of not-fairness was so strong that the silver mist soon began to tremble and coil, looking for a memory, out of all the memories that should have been floating with it, to crawl into. It found none.

_Right. They've all gone and spilled out all over the floor. That's what I get for trusting a clone concocted by Potter. Just when you really need it to perform, it malfunctions. It's bad enough being seventeen again without this._

Twisting and swirling in the lower side of the flask, trying to avoid the neck and opening, the mist finally found a memory and slid into it. It was the memory it had just placed in the soulstone coffin when the 'accident' occurred.

"Oh, joy," said pensieve Snape, not caring who heard him because he knew perfectly well that none of them could hear him. "Potions class. I get to relive potions class. I should trade the body in on a bionic one. I wonder how much it would cost."

He watched himself enter the Potions room and call roll. Then his memory self began its usual introductory speech, but this time pensieve Snape stepped to the front of the room as well. From there he could clearly see the expression on James – no, Harry Potter's face – a face that radiated hostility.

_Lily's eyes radiating hostility from James's face. Who does he think he is, glaring at me like that? It's Petunia. Petunia's poisoned him against me. She never forgave me for taking Lily out from under her thumb._

Hearing memory Snape challenge and defeat James's brat with the simplest of questions – ones that really were at the beginning of the book – pensieve Snape settled back to watch – and to relive, as if for the first time – what a stunningly horrid class it had been. He'd thought then, and concurred now, that except for Draco Malfoy, it was the worst class of inept dunderheads he'd ever had the misfortune to try to teach. And that included Granger who, for all her intellectual understanding, seemed never to have held a knife before in her life and had to be prevented from slicing off the tips of her fingers.

Students used the wrong weights on the scales for the nettles, shot snake fangs across the room like tiddlywinks instead of crushing them, stuck porcupine quills up each others' noses, and seared the horned slugs instead of stewing them. Thank goodness for Draco, he thought, knowing his memory self was thinking the same thing. And through it all he heard memory Snape critiquing, scolding, admonishing… and marveled that he'd had so much patience.

Then Neville's cauldron melted, and he had to be sent to the hospital wing with Seamus Finnigan, while memory Snape chided Potter for not being careful.

_Well,_ thought pensieve Snape, _that was perhaps a touch unfair. Potter wasn't Longbottom's partner, and I didn't tell him to watch Neville. Why did I do that?_ He knew it was because he'd been thinking of Lily rather than Potter, but Potter wouldn't have known that.

The class ended, and the students drifted into the corridor. Snape sighed, thankful that the ordeal was over… And then it began again from the beginning, a tape that rewound and replayed itself over and over again…

At the third replay, pensieve Snape left the memory for the quiet near-oblivion of the soulstone and empty air. There, in the blessed silence, he recuperated. But the silence, too, became oppressive, and he fled back into the never-ending classroom.

It was at about the tenth replay that the constant torturous drip of sarcasm and invective finally got to him. "In the name of Merlin," he shrieked at his memory self, "do you have to talk like that all the time?"

His emotional venting had no effect except to prod him to notice things with new eyes. The first revelation was a spontaneous understanding of the expression on Potter's face. _He winced that day at the Welcoming Feast, as if in pain. Of course. Quirrell was looking at me, so the Dark Lord was looking at Potter. The Dark Lord made the scar sting, but Potter thought it was me. He was wrong, but at least he had a reason._

After that, he began to look at the faces of the other students. Milicent Bulstrode had mangled her snake fangs, but she' d done a decent job on the nettles. _Why couldn't I have mentioned the nettles before I brought up the fangs?_ Time after time it was the same. The students were, collectively and individually, a disaster, but there had been good amidst the bad. _Why didn't I praise the good in addition to criticizing the bad? Why didn't I see the good as well as the bad?_

Once again pensieve Snape left the memory and went into the emptiness. This time he stayed there for a long while.

It was the math that forced the gray thread of being to move again. Thought was easier in a memory, where there was at least the illusion of having head and hands, so the mist reentered the Potions class, trying to ignore what was happening there.

"Eleven times a double Potions class plus Merlin knows how long waiting outside on two occasions equals… Have I been in here for more than a day? What's happening to that body outside? Has anyone even noticed there's a problem?" Pensieve Snape was talking to himself again as he paced near the door of the room. There was more at stake than just having to watch the same memory over and over again. There was now the problem of the body outside, the body that still needed food, and more urgently water, to survive. "What if it dies? What happens to me then?"

Looking around the room for inspiration, pensieve Snape saw something on memory Snape's desk that ought not to be there. It was a lump of something purple and soft looking… a familiar lump. Hardly daring to believe his eyes, pensieve Snape approached the thing cautiously. There was no doubt of it – it was Quirrell's turban.

_I'm in the wrong flask. In the darkness, I grabbed the wrong flask. This is the Dark Lord's flask…_ Snape backed quickly away. What were his options? He could stay in the memory and risk an encounter with whatever remnant remained of the Dark Lord under the layers of cloth, or he could go into the emptiness of the purple coffin, an emptiness now more than adequately explained. Was there another option?

Snape fingered the wand he'd let slip into his hand as he tried to remember the location of the pensieve in the front room outside. He was fairly sure he could get to it, and once there, he would be better able to plan his next move. With one more suspicious glance at the turban – which remained quiet and utterly turbanlike – Snape left the memory.

The journey to the pensieve was frightening, since getting one's bearings was so much more difficult as a mist than as a seeing entity. Direction and distance were calculated by the probable position of the flask when it fell. It was immensely gratifying to collide with the leg of the small table where the pensieve rested. After that, flowing up the leg was relatively easy.

Navigating the table top was a matter of moving in ever widening arcs until the mist struck the bowl of the pensieve. A few seconds later, Snape stood on the surface of the basin, gazing at the room around him. He sought, and found, the body he dwelt in.

'It' was lying in a crumpled heap a few steps from the fireplace and mantel from which it had taken the soulstone flask, stretched out slightly on its right side, clearly never having had the opportunity to brace itself against the fall. It was rather pathetic, Snape thought with some distaste. Early morning light was beginning to grace the windows, indicating the passage of at least twenty-four hours. Snape prayed it was not forty-eight.

"Nobody came," Snape complained to the walls. "Not one person ventured by to peer in the windows and send for help. Fine thing, living in a village where everyone snoops into your private life, but no one cares if you die!"

The steady passage of time, and its attendant opportunity to reflect, brought Snape around to the admission that he was not being fair. They'd all seen him hearty and well on Sunday. He'd said he'd be working on potions. There'd been no reason to check. Potter was at work. Hagrid had things to do. _Where's the Peeler?_ Snape thought. _Doesn't he have to make rounds?_

It was then that Snape remembered Nelson. "Nelson!" he began to yell as violently as his miniscule vocal chords could manage. "Nelson!" He hollered; he cooed; he hooted; he shouted. After an eternity, just when Snape was giving up hope, wings pulsed against the front windows. Nelson was there, but the house was shut, and birds are not equipped to open doors.

"Nelson," Snape crooned loudly. "There's a good bird. I need your help." He was thinking as quickly as he could, worried now about the stability of the pensieve's image. Hugh and Gillian were closer but, not being magical, would be of little help. Besides, he was in no position to fasten a note to the owl's leg. Potter was a good four hours of flight time closer than Hagrid. "Nelson, I need you to bring Harry Potter. You met him. He lives in London, Avery Row. That's the largest city in England, and it's south of here. Avery Row is in the district of Mayfair. South and a little east, about six hours flying time. He knows you, and if you tell him it's important, he'll come. Go fetch Harry Potter."

The tawny owl beat its wings against the window, confused and upset, but it obeyed… after a fashion. As it lifted off from the windows, it did not immediately go where it had been told. Instead it flew east to the village of Weetsmoor, where it glided from house to house and lane to lane until it spied Hugh Latimer on his bicycle. It flew directly into the young constable's face, screeching and hooting. Only after Hugh cried, "All right, I'm going!" did Nelson rise into the upper winds and head south toward London.

And so it was Hugh and Gillian who arrived first at the cottage.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Tuesday, July 20, 1999 - the first quarter_

Fortunately, Snape didn't lock his doors. The Latimers had no trouble getting into the house, and found both halves of Snape immediately. It was what they had been expecting to find and were prepared for.

Pensieve Snape was immensely relieved to see them. "You didn't forget about me after all!" He cried out as they came through the door. I was hoping someone…"

"We thought you sent for us," responded Hugh, kneeling by the body and checking its vital signs. "It was Nelson that alerted me."

"I've got to do something special for that owl. That's a marvelous owl. Is it in decent working order?" The last bit was about the body.

"Seems all right. A bit dehydrated." Hugh stood, assessed the furniture, and dragged the sofa across the room so that it was beside the unconscious Snape. Skin and flesh had felt cold, and the sofa would be warmer than the floor. "I'll need blankets, but water first."

Gillian had gone to the kitchen and now returned with a spoon and a cup of water. She set it down on the table next to the pensieve and helped Hugh move the inert body to the sofa, where Hugh carefully propped up its head and slid teaspoonfuls of water into its mouth, inducing it to swallow. Gillian went upstairs and returned with the blankets, which she tucked around it like a cocoon. Neither suggested calling paramedics.

"When did this happen? What were you doing when you split?" Gillian asked solicitously, picking up the soulstone flask from the floor, stoppering it, and replacing it on the mantel. She picked up the fallen wand as well.

The fact that the body was out of danger, and that outsiders would not be brought in, had calmed pensieve Snape immensely. "What day is it?" he asked.

"Tuesday, around noon."

After what was now verified as having been somewhat over thirty-two hours, Snape was more than willing to open up and respond. It was just good to have someone to talk to. "I had a dream. It upset me, and I was putting memories into the flask. I'd just gotten to the first one, and it," he indicated the body, "caved on me."

"The memories must be painful."

"Irritating. That's all. Just irritating."

"Were they distant memories, or recent ones?"

Thankful that Gillian had not asked directly what the memories had been, Snape answered, "Sort of middling. About eight years ago."

"I see. Do you think I could use this thing?" She held up the wand.

"I thought we discussed that. It isn't the wand that does magic." Snape watched the skepticism develop on her face. "Go ahead and try," he said finally. "It can't hurt anything."

Gillian went to the mantel, to the green flask, unstoppered it, and dipped the wand inside as she'd seen the wizards do. When she drew it out, there was nothing attached to it. Several tries later she admitted that there must be more to it than just the wand. "That's disappointing," she said.

"I'm going to have to confess at this point that you're not using a full wand," Snape admitted. "The essence of it is here in the pensieve with me. It's probable that none of us would be able to do anything with it either. I'll let you try again when I'm out of here and the wand's whole."

"Deal," said Gillian.

"It's fortunate," Snape remarked in order to change the subject, "that you were right out on the main road where Nelson could see you."

"No I wasn't," Hugh said. "I was chatting with Mrs. Wainwright over on the east moor. The owl came looking for me."

"Really? That's odd. I'd have thought the first one he'd go to in the village was Ridley."

"I thought you'd sent him to me."

"No. No, I sent him to London for a wizard with a wand. He went to the village on his own…" Snape eyed Hugh speculatively. "Why don't you try the wand?" he suggested.

"Now you're being daft," Hugh laughed, but Gillian pressed the wand on him, and he took it – a trifle timidly.

"All right," Snape directed, "come over here… Stand there… Stretch out the wand so I can touch it with mine… Now, say the words 'Accio Wand' while concentrating on my wand."

Hugh did as he was told, with no visible result. Then, at Snape's request, he tried it again. This time, Snape's wand disappeared. "It was vibrating," Hugh said, staring at the wand in wonder.

"Excellent," said Snape.

"I could've done that," Gillian insisted. "Why didn't you let me do that?"

"Nelson wasn't looking for you," Snape replied, as if the logic were obvious to all.

"Now what?" Hugh asked, blandly unconcerned about his wife's having been passed over.

"Hugh!"

"Why should it be you?" Hugh asked. "I'm the one who grew up here and played in the ruins. Who's to say there isn't something about this place? And the owl did come to me. What do I do next?"

"Snag a memory from that green flask."

Hugh did as Snape told him, and then placed the memory in the pensieve. He'd gotten it on the first try, with no effort at all.

"Now," said Snape, "this is important. I'm going into the memory. When I'm gone, you hook the memory again and touch it to that thing's head. Right by the temple. That's the real test." Then Snape dissolved and faded into the larger memory mist.

Hugh's natural sense of caution prompted him to first pick up the pensieve and carry it over to the sofa as Gillian watched, partly excited and partly jealous. Her fingers clearly itched to hold the wand, but she said nothing. Hugh, too, said nothing, focusing all his attention on the task at hand. Holding the pensieve next to Snape's head, he lifted the silver memory thread inside and drew it towards the sleeping teenager's temple. Mist touched flesh and entered. Hugh and Gillian let out nearly identical sighs.

Snape sneezed.

"Bless you," said Gillian.

"I feel awful," replied Snape, pushing against the entwining blanket. "Is there any water? I'm parched. And I have a headache."

Gillian went to the kitchen for another cup of water, while Hugh helped Snape unwind the blanket and sit up. Snape moved slowly and carefully, his joints and muscles stiff and painful. "Do I have a bruise on my face?" he asked Hugh.

"You do indeed," Hugh told him. "Just there, around the right cheekbone and eye. You must have struck something when you fell."

"The floor would have been enough," said Snape. He took the cup Gillian handed to him and drank the water gratefully, then tried to stand – a feat made difficult by the fact that the body had been motionless for nearly a day and a half. "Is this what old people feel like when they wake up?" he asked. "No wonder McGonagall's always grumpy in the morning."

"It will pass," Gillian laughed. "All you need to do is move around a bit and everything will loosen up and get flexible again."

They got him on his feet and assisted him for the first steps, but then Snape waved the other two aside and shuffled around by himself, moving fingers, wrists, arms, and gradually working the stiffness out of the body. "There," he said after ten minutes, "that's better. If you would excuse me for a few minutes, and then I'd like to offer you lunch." He headed for the stairs.

"You're sure you don't need us?" Hugh grinned.

"Not for this," rejoined Snape. He climbed the stairs slowly and went into the bathroom to check the bruise in the mirror, wash his face, and perform other necessary functions. Downstairs again, he and the Latimers chatted over lunch, keeping the conversation light and optimistic for Snape's sake. More profound subjects, like magic and dreams, could come later.

Finally Snape rose. "I don't want to be a poor host," he said, "but I'm afraid I have to get to London. Nelson should be arriving soon, and I want to be there to let him know everything's all right."

Snape arrived first, and was ushered into the little sitting room at the entrance to the boarding house by Mrs. Purdy, for Harry had not yet arrived home from the Ministry of Magic. Snape did ask if an owl had attempted to deliver a message and received a negative reply.

Harry apparated into the area yard ten minutes later, bursting into the sitting room as soon as Mrs. Purdy informed him of the presence of his guest. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his tone more concerned than irritated. "What's happened?"

"I'm here to retrieve an owl," Snape replied calmly. "After I dispatched him, the reason for contacting you went away."

"Lovely," said Harry, the snide note in his voice a remarkable imitation of Snape's on a nasty day. "So did you send a message inviting me to visit, then decide you didn't want to see me, or did you send one vilifying me and later regret burning bridges?"

Snape sighed. "I suppose I deserve that," he said. "What actually happened is that I had another mind/body meltdown and was trapped in a pensieve, and I…"

"Oh!" interjected Harry suddenly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize…"

"That's all right. It's just that Nelson still thinks I'm trapped…"

"Come on up, then," Harry led the way out of the sitting room and up the three flight of stairs to his own apartment, Snape drawing on his heavy gloves on the way. They got there just in time, for not three minutes later, Nelson was beating against the window to be let in.

Harry flung the window open, and Nelson lit on the ledge. Then the owl suddenly launched himself across the room at Snape, screeching like a crazed baboon, claws outstretched and wings flailing in attack. It was apparent at once that he was a little upset about something.

"Get off me, you…" Snape cried, shielding his head with his gloved hands. "I didn't do it on purpose! You saved me, you know! You got Hugh Latimer! That's why I'm here! I wanted to tell you!"

The wing beats slowed, as did the screeches, and Nelson flapped upwards to stall and settle down on the table. There he paced back and forth a couple of times, his claws click-clicking on the wood surface, feathers ruffled and wings partly spread, emitting a hoarse _'aack-aack'_ as he tried to calm down. Snape pulled over a chair and sat so that his head would be more on a level with Nelson's.

"If I'd had any way of knowing where you were in flight, or hope of your seeing me on the ground, I'd have tried intercepting you. All I knew was where you were going and about when you'd arrive. I did the best I could. But you got me the help I needed. You knew even better than I did who could help me. It was Hugh Latimer. He was the perfect choice. How did you know?"

Nelson stopped pacing and lowered his head, wings back. His call was now a nervous _'kew-ick-ick.'_ Snape pulled his glove off and stroked the owl's feathers, calling him a good boy and a smart owl. Finally, Nelson shook himself all over as if he'd just been in a birdbath. _"Hoo,"_ he said.

"Hoo, yourself," Snape answered. "Will you trust me to take you home?"

_"Kew-wick."_

"Oh, no," said Harry, breaking into the tête-à-tête with the owl with some reluctance. "You have to explain to me about this police constable who can manipulate a pensieve memory. He isn't magical, is he? Why didn't Hogwarts know?"

"Hogwarts," said Snape flatly, "doesn't know everything. Neither does the Ministry of Magic."

"I suppose you do."

"I keep an open mind, and I have learned to add. And when I have one muggle who can't use a wand at all, and another muggle who can use one for passive magic, then I can see that two and two equal a bit more than three." Snape turned back to the owl. "Would you like to go home now, Nelson?"

"Wait a minute," said Harry. "What do you mean by passive magic?"

"I mean, Mr. Smarty, that when asked to cast a spell, like Accio, Constable Latimer cannot do it, at least not unassisted, but when asked to use a wand for simple, mechanical things like taking a memory from a pensieve, he can. Gillian, on the other hand, can't."

"What do you think that means?" Harry asked, sitting down himself.

"Do you know anything about genetics?" Snape countered. "It would be easier to explain if you did. They don't, however, teach it at Hogwarts."

"'Fraid not," Harry said. "Does it have something to do with who's magical and who isn't?"

"Yes," said Snape, "it does. The traditional wizarding view is that magic 'runs' in families, but that the occasional squib or muggle-born witch is a sudden, unexplainable fluke. Genetics is the science that explains the mechanics of how it happens. I don't know the process in detail because I went to Hogwarts instead of a real school, too, but as I understand it, some of our qualities come from our fathers' families, some from our mothers', and some from spontaneous mutation. My understanding is that each and every one of us is, to a greater or lesser extent, a mutant."

"That's a terrible thing to say," Harry exploded. "I'm not a mutant!"

"How would you know?" Snape countered. "Have you had the blood tests to prove it? That's the only way you'd find out."

"You mean you can't feel it?"

"Can you 'feel' that your eyes are green?"

"Don't be silly. You don't feel things like that."

"Exactly. And you don't feel most mutations either. Most of them are so small that they're unnoticeable. They're there, though."

"Okay, I'm listening. How does this work?"

"The carriers are called genes. The genes you get from your father give you your father's traits. Those from your mother, your mother's traits. Sometimes they clash, and then the stronger one wins. The gene for your mother's eyes was stronger than whatever eye gene you got from your father, so you have your mother's eyes. Sometimes the differing genes have varying levels of strength, so you get something in the middle. Sometimes a gene mutates, and you get something totally new. Hemophilia in the British royal family, for example."

"What's hemophilia?"

Snape glared at Harry. "If I were you, I'd sue Hogwarts." He took a deep breath. "I think magical ability is one of those things that has varying levels of strength. I don't think you're magical or you're not. I think you can be somewhere on a continuum of magical ability, or not. In some people it's strong, in others middling, in others weak, and in others it's below the threshold of being noticed. It's still there, though, unless you're a one hundred percent muggle. I'd bet a large number of muggle-borns aren't mutants. I'd bet if you researched it, you'd find very weak magical genes on both sides of the family that met and resurfaced when the two family lines joined."

"And Constable Latimer is from one of the weak families that no one ever noticed because it isn't strong enough!" Harry rose to pace the room, energized at his own perceptiveness. "Who do we tell?"

"And have the Ministry crawling all over Weetsmoor! We tell no one. I am not about to drag our dear constable into the glare of the limelight and have him dissected in scholarly dissertations published in academic journals all over the wizarding world!"

Snape and Harry glared at each other now, and then Harry began to chuckle. "I've never heard of any academic journals in the wizarding world," he pointed out. "Are you sure there's any danger?"

"No, but I still don't want the Ministry in Weetsmoor. I'm not saying anything to anyone, and I forbid you to do so."

"What if I refuse to obey you?"

"I'll hex your nose into a pig snout and use you to hunt truffles. I thought you liked the Latimers."

"I do," Harry admitted, "and I agree about the Ministry. But wouldn't you want to tell Dumbledore or McGonagall? I bet they'd be thrilled at the idea."

"Dumbledore," said Snape, "is a portrait, and McGonagall thinks I'm dead. There are times when I really worry about your analytical abilities, Potter. You come up with some strange ideas."

Harry, having nothing pertinent to say, said nothing, giving Snape a pause that he immediately used to terminate the conversation. "We need to be getting back home," Snape said. "Are you ready, Nelson?"

Nelson began to exhibit signs of owl distress. He ruffled his feathers. He let out a nervous _'aack'_ and pecked repeatedly at the table. He paced. He even pooped.

"Was it really that bad?" Snape asked with some concern.

_"Aack,"_ croaked Nelson.

"The alternative is to fly," Snape reminded him.

_"Aack-ick,"_ said Nelson, pulling out a couple of breast feathers with his beak.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Harry. "He seems afraid of something."

"I think it's apparating. The only other time he traveled a long distance was to Hogwarts, and he apparated home with Hagrid. You know what a joyous experience apparating is, but at least with Hagrid he had a pocket to ride in."

"How about a portkey?" Harry was looking around the flat for an object that might serve.

"You know, Potter," said Snape speculatively, "there are times when you rise above yourself." He turned to the owl. "There is another way that's almost as fast as apparating. It isn't pleasant, but it's better than apparating. You rather feel like something has grabbed you and pulled you, and you rush through the air very fast. Would you like to try it? You may fly if you wish."

_"Hoo,"_ said Nelson.

"Very well. Potter, do you happen to have a bit of string I could use?" When Harry placed a short length of string in his right hand, Snape held out his left for Nelson to sit on. He then placed the string in the owl's beak. "Don't worry, once this starts it can't slip out." He turned to Harry. "There aren't any portkey restrictions here, are there?"

"Not that I know of. Would you rather do this from the area yard where we apparate?"

Snape thought that an excellent idea, so the three of them went downstairs. They almost ran into Miss Arwella Dowd, but that lady was faster than she looked and, after gasping 'Sprite!', dodged into the dining room where Mrs. Purdy, having foreseen such an encounter, was ready with smelling salts. Nothing further hindered the creation of a portkey, and a moment later Snape and Nelson were back in the garden of the cottage in Lancashire.

"There," Snape said soothingly to the owl, who continued to clutch his gloved hand. "Wasn't that better than apparating?"

_"Hoo,"_ said Nelson.

"Was it better than flying for six hours?"

_"Hoo."_ Having registered his opinion, Nelson launched himself into the air and headed home to his family.

_That's all right,_ Snape thought. _Next time I'll send you to Hugh first anyway._ He then repaired to the kitchen to fix supper. After the stress of the last two days, he even stooped to using magic in the preparation of the food, and was diving into a mess of fish and chips five minutes later.

That was when Snape remembered that it was now Tuesday, and the first quarter of the moon was nearly nine hours old. He was supposed to be making apple wood wands! As he rose quickly from the table, Snape remembered something else. He was supposed to be feeding jobberknolls! His calm, peaceful country life was growing complicated.

Quickly grabbing a couple of small saucers, Snape rushed into the garden where he began Accioing worms, grubs, caterpillars, beetles, and gnats. Having garnered a store that he hoped would last the nestlings for the evening, he apparated to the church yard, secure in the knowledge that all Weetsmoor would be in their homes having supper. A quick glance around revealed no one, so Snape levitated himself to the little belfry on the corner of the chapel roof. There he laid the saucers with their bounty and quickly returned to the ground, waiting until he saw the parent bird light and start feeding the proffered meal to the chicks.

With a sigh of relief, Snape turned to go. It was then that he saw the elderly woman standing by the stone wall of the church yard. She was watching him, and had probably been there for some time. When he looked her way, she raised a hand and waggled her fingers at him in greeting. There wasn't much Snape could do without being unforgivably rude, so he walked over to her, assessing her age and the attendant possibilities on the way.

"Mrs. Wainwright?" Snape ventured as he approached the old lady. "Forgive me, but I think we have a mutual acquaintance in your son Oscar, whom I was introduced to last week."

"He'd be more of an acquaintance if he dropped by to see me more often," retorted Mrs. Wainwright. "You'll be the grandson, I think. I was that sorry for what happened to Constantina, and I'm thankful I got to tell you so before I follow her."

Snape started to speak, but she held up a hand to stop him. "And don't go telling me you're too young to be the grandson because I know better. First, you people age differently, some faster and some slower. Constantina, she was one of the slow ones. Second, you look so much alike that if you're not the grandson, you're a sheep named Dolly. Third, there isn't a teenager the length and breadth of Britain who talks the way you did just then. What were you doing just now up there on the roof? Feeding those birds? You caused quite a stir this last weekend. I wouldn't mind hearing about it if you wouldn't mind having a spot of tea and a bite of apple tart."

There was nothing there that Snape would mind having; the offer, indeed, seemed quite appealing. "If you're certain, ma'am, that I wouldn't be a bother…"

"A bother! You wait until you're my age and find out how hard it is to get a moment's company to pass the dreary days. I'm not supposed to complain too much because I have the chickens to keep me busy, and for some reason Oscar thinks they tire me out too much to want company. Pish-tosh, I say. He just doesn't want to take the time. We turn left here. I'm just down the lane a ways…"

'Just down the lane a ways' turned out to be a good half mile, Snape knowing by the evening clucking and the whiff of manure that they were nearing the chicken farm. It seemed, as they entered the gate to the yard, that there might be as many as fifty free-range hens, plus a black and white border collie to watch over and protect them.

"If you're ever in need of eggs, dear," Mrs. Wainwright said, "you just let me know. I spent many a long afternoon just chatting with Constantina… I need to do right by her grandson. I'll give you the eggs wholesale."

Snape had a brief flashback to a conversation with Harry Potter about competing with the local merchants and turned down the offer. "That's extremely kind of you, Mrs. Wainwright, but I think I would feel bad about taking custom from the Ridleys." There was an awkward pause, and then he added, "But on the other hand, there is the question of the manure. Do you have a regular buyer? Because I could use some for the garden – the flowers and vegetables, you know – and if…"

"Fertilizer!" cried Mrs. Wainwright. "I'm up to my ears in it and nary a buyer in sight. We could work out a mutually acceptable price and…" She went on to extol the benefits of chicken droppings as they entered her home through the kitchen door.

Mrs. Wainwright's cottage was similar to Nana's in that it was also a small, ancient building that had been added to over the years. In this case, however, the front room had been constructed on the opposite side from the kitchen hearth, and there were therefore two fireplaces and two chimneys on opposite ends of the cottage. Snape looked around on the ground floor while Mrs. Wainwright made tea and cut two slices of a large tart.

"Did you know my grandmother well?" Snape asked as they settled at the kitchen table. Then he took the first bite of tart. "This is delicious! It actually tastes like…"

"It should," Mrs. Wainwright chuckled. "She used a recipe I gave to her. She was over here frequently, and I over there. Two old women gabbing the afternoon away."

"So you know my home well. I've been wrestling with the need to rebuild it properly – more stability, you know – but the layout is somewhat… inconvenient."

That brought a laugh. Mrs. Wainwright could not have been called beautiful. She was small and frail looking, with silver gray hair, wrinkled skin, and gaps in her teeth where she'd lost some, but when she laughed her blue eyes sparkled with fun. "You sound like Constantina, but she'd have used something harsher than 'inconvenient.' Whoever added on to that cottage had no sense of proportion or how you use space. She'd have redone it herself except she wasn't good with building spells."

"Do you remember what she wanted to do with the doors?"

"Certainly, dear. She'd have had but one in the middle of the east side…"

The rest of the conversation involved rough sketches on odd bits of paper as Snape pumped Mrs. Wainwright for every detail of what Nana had wanted for the cottage. He headed home an hour later feeling much better about the whole thing.

Home was not, however – as Snape realized upon his arrival there – the welcoming place it should have been. He did not want to go upstairs. Forced to go upstairs because that was where the bathroom was, he did not want to go into the bedroom. The idea of falling asleep was fearful, for sleeping meant dreaming, and he didn't want to dream. He didn't want to dream or remember, and he didn't want to split apart again into a semi-corpse and a puddle of sentient fog.

_It's still Tuesday, _Snape thought. _I'm supposed to start work on the wand today. The quarter moon…_

It was as good an excuse as any, and better than most. Refusing to even entertain the thought that lack of sleep might cause a meltdown just as easily as disturbing dreams, Snape went into his kitchen to check on the sticks of apple wood he'd left to dry above the stove.

A cored wand is made in two pieces, the handle and the shaft, the latter of which is hollowed out at its base to take the core material. There is no requirement that the two pieces come from the same stick, though they should be of the same kind of wood, and it is best if they come from the same tree. Snape had been careful to keep the branches from the different trees separate, and he now, by the light of a lantern and a battery operated torch, laid them out on the table and assessed his material.

_Five branches, but one of them is really too thick to be anything but handles. I could get three handles from it, though, The problem is, only one of the shaft pieces comes from the same tree, so two wands would have less than optimal wood. Of course, it is bowtruckle wood. I wonder if that makes a difference?_

The most promising stick, however, was the fifth one – thick as a handle at its base, but narrowing quickly and tapering to a point. It had looked like a wand even while it was still on the tree. After examining it with some satisfaction, Snape began the slow, careful process of stripping away the bark to expose the bare wood.

The wood was, in fact, beautiful – a densely grained hardwood that exuded a light, fragrant apple scent. The handles would need shaping, as would two of the shafts, but the other two would need only a minimum of sanding and refining. Snape spent some time studying where to cut and trim the pieces, and then considerably more time trying to find a saw, but around midnight he made the first cut, separating the thickest of the branches into three pieces, each between four and five inches long. These were his handles. He then cut off the thicker part of the fifth branch and set each pair of handle and shaft together, with the newly cut and trimmed wood touching so that the two parts could establish a bond.

That was it. Four wands – each, when finished, about nine and a half inches long. A good length. There was a well-known inverse relationship between the concentration of the wizard and the wand. A truly disciplined wizard could perform focused wandless magic. A less adept wizard required the focus of a longer wand. Snape sighed and looked around the kitchen. There was nothing else to do… No more excuses for not going to bed…

He got up and wandered into the front room, searching for something to keep him occupied. The awkward little space off the other side of the room beckoned him, and he spent nearly fifteen minutes there with the piles of books looking for something to read. Finally selecting a Peter Wimsey mystery involving arsenic poisoning, he settled on the sofa and was asleep before he'd finished chapter one.

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_Wednesday, July 21, 1999_

Sunlight streamed into the house through the east windows, setting tiny dust motes dancing in the air. It wasn't the sun that woke Snape, though. It was the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. Snape rose smoothly and silently from his sofa, and glided to the kitchen door, his wand slipping from his sleeve into his hand as he glanced through the doorway at the intruder.

It was Ginny Weasley, who was trying to light a fire in the cold stove without using magic and having no success at it whatsoever.

"What are you doing here?" Snape snapped at her, causing Ginny to bang her hand against the stove's iron side as she jumped back.

"I wanted to fix some tea," Ginny said, rubbing the injured hand and bending down to retrieve the scattered matches she'd just dropped.

"You could do that just as easily in your own home. More easily, in fact. Why here?"

"Harry sent me, if you really want to know. He says you're lighting everything up like a neon sign, and people are starting to get suspicious. Something about levitating yesterday afternoon."

"Why didn't Wonder Boy come himself to chew me out? I'm sure he'd have loved the opportunity." Snape looked at the stove. "Have you ever heard of the word 'kindling?' Because you don't have any. Chunks of wood like that don't burn on their own."

"I don't understand," Ginny said, peering into the firebox. "It's wood. Wood burns, right?"

"No, wood does not burn. When you heat wood enough, it starts to release gas, and the gas burns. It's easy to get small bits and pieces hot enough, but you need something bigger than a match to get the bigger pieces started. That's what kindling is for." He showed her how to set twigs and chips around the larger pieces and stuck in a couple of pieces of crumpled newspaper for good measure. The paper burned quickly, the twigs began to flame, and after a few minutes little tongues of fire appeared on the larger wood.

"That was easy," Ginny said sadly. "Why couldn't I do that?"

"Because nobody ever taught you. It isn't instinctive, you know. You're not born knowing it."

"Is there anything you are born knowing?"

"I doubt it." As he talked, Snape put the kettle on the stove and began making the tea. "The utter helplessness of the human infant is one of the mysteries of nature. I am constantly amazed that the species ever survived at all, considering the years of care, constant vigilance, and exhausting labor required before the puling thing turns into a person. Horses can walk from the moment they're born."

"You're mean."

"So I've been told. And since when have you known about neon signs?"

"I don't. I was just repeating what Harry said. Do you remember Sally-Ann Perks?"

"Muggle-born Hufflepuff? Has she succeeded in landing Finch-Fletchley yet?"

Ginny stared at Snape in wonder. "How did you know about them? They didn't start dating until after they left Hogwarts."

Snape set cups and saucers, sugar, and milk on the table. "Attention span," he said. "She didn't have one unless she was paired with him. You put her at the same cauldron as him, though, and she was focused for the entire class. What about Miss Perks?"

Ginny laughed. "She works in the same office as Harry, and she's been noticing little puffs of magic in a village where there haven't been any magical folk for twenty years. Harry's been telling her it's just old families moving back into their former homes now that Voldemort's gone, but she's kind of hard to put off once she's got her nose on a scent. Have you used any magic on those?" She pointed at the soon-to-be wands on the table.

"No, I did not. I was very careful to do everything by hand last night." Snape thought for a moment. "Look, if Potter was right, and a magical family had moved back in, then there would be signs of magic. It would be the absence of small magical spells that would be odd. Why couldn't the Ministry send someone, like Potter, to come up and investigate? Wouldn't that close the matter as far as Miss Perks was concerned?"

"Actually," Ginny mused, "Harry's right, isn't he? A magical family has moved back into its old home. Your family. Our only problem is that we don't want anyone to know it's you."

The kettle boiled, and Snape warmed the pot, then set the tea to steep for a minute. Meanwhile Ginny pondered the problem.

"Your mother's family was Prince… that's what Hermione said. What was your grandmother's maiden name?"

"Constantina Rossendale," said Snape. "This was the Rossendale cottage before it was the Prince cottage. She was rather well known locally."

"Any cousins on that side of the family?"

"I don't think so. Look," Snape said, pouring the tea, "this isn't going to work. I'm supposed to be Richard Snape, muggle nephew, not one of the Rossendale wizards, if there are any left."

"Let me think about it," said Ginny, and the subject was dropped. She spent the rest of her visit looking over the plans for the cottage and learning about Mrs. Wainwright.

Late that morning, having seen Ginny apparate back to London, Snape took his bicycle and went into the village to talk to Gordon Roach. After some discussion of Snape's drawings, the two then went together to the pub where, as they expected, the stalwarts of the village were enjoying a pint. Roach left a sign on the door of his shop letting customers know he would reopen later that afternoon. The size of the order he was about to get from Snape made Snape by far the most important person in Roach's world at that moment.

The group studied the drawings for several minutes.

"Just the one way in?" Allsop commented after the others had settled back to dwell on the matter.

"The door's on the east, facing the village. Right now there's the main door facing away from the village and a kitchen door on that east side. I'm not expecting anyone coming from the west, and it's more sheltered from the weather. Gives me more leeway inside."

They nodded. It made some sense. "You haven't shown any allowances for the inside doors, though," said Hackett. "Not on the ground floor, at least."

"Why do I need doors there?" Snape asked. "Open passageways let light and air circulate more freely – and heat in the winter, I might add. It's only with the bedrooms upstairs that you need privacy."

"What's these two places?" Morley asked. "Looks like windows on the inside of the house."

"They're sort of pass-throughs," Snape explained. "One from the kitchen to the study, and the other from the study to the front room. They're as much to let more light in as anything, but you can also pass food through. I was thinking of having a little 'bar' in the study, and could serve directly into the front room when I had guests."

"Bar?" Logan grunted. "You're not one for those American cocktails, are you?"

"Not especially, though I think a gin and tonic is more British colonial than American. I was thinking of sherry, port… and I do know someone partial to Drambuie."

"Well, that's all right, then," said Logan, mollified.

Snape considered himself wise not to mention the pousse cafe and the Amaretto.

"The stairs are fine," said Latimer. "A good angle, the risers not too steep. They've made the kitchen smaller, though."

"Well, the study's made the kitchen smaller, too, but most of it was wasted space anyway. there's still room for a table to seat six at a pinch."

"And a pinch it would be, too," Logan crowed, "especially if one of them was that big fellow!"

"But look at the counter and cupboard room," Snape pointed out. "And the storage space under the stairs. That's also where the trapdoor to the cellar will be."

"I think you've done a great job," said Roach. "It looks like a winner. But are you really planning on entertaining that much? Looks like you've got three bedrooms upstairs."

"One of them's going to be a workroom," Snape explained. "Probably the largest room in the back. And being able to say I have a guest room, even such a small one, feels kind of posh."

The other men nodded in understanding. They then settled down to working out how much material would be needed to complete the construction, taking into account what Snape already had that could be reused. Since much of that was transfigured, most of it would have to be purchased. Roach said nothing, but kept a tally of lumber and prices while the others talked.

"What about the roof?" Latimer asked after they'd hashed out just about everything else.

"Pitched," Snape said at once, "at a rather steep angle. With shingles. And a brick chimney." He sat back and drained what was left in his glass. It felt good to have everything on track at last.

"Of course," said Roach after a pause, "there's the septic system. That'll have to go in first."

"Now there's an unpleasant topic," Snape grumbled, but he hadn't figured on the older male fascination with everything to do with plumbing and regularity. A spirited discussion ensued, involving opinions on pumps, drainfields, biofilters, aerobic versus anaerobic treatment, and peat moss. It turned out that the entirety of Weetsmoor used septic tanks, the village being too small for an actual municipal sewage system.

"And they'll be sending someone to inspect, you know," Allsop pointed out. "You can't hide that much building material coming in. By the way, what're you going to do about permits?"

"Permits!" Snape moaned. "I forgot about the permits! Whatever happened to the simple rural life?"

"That's what you get when you elect a Labour government," Logan told him. "Nationalization and a pile of bureaucracy. And after that, nothing works."

Allsop burst out with a barking laugh. "Don't get him started on politics," he warned. "There's no living with him when he starts talking politics!"

Roach left them to reopen his shop, and the conversation turned to the whole matter of bureaucrats and permits. Snape assured the others that there was no problem as long as he was at some point in the same room with the person who had to give the approval. "I've actually done something like this before," he admitted, "but it was in Birmingham." The others vowed that they'd love to watch and wouldn't miss it for the world.

Later, after more pints than he was used to, Snape wobbled his way home on the bicycle. It was now early evening, and Hagrid was there to greet him. There was nothing wrong. Hagrid had merely chosen that evening to visit… bearing gifts. The gifts were three unicorn hairs. Snape was sober in an instant.

"Mane or tail?" he asked Hagrid.

"Ya don't know a lot about unicorns, do ya?" Hagrid let his mirth fizz a little. "Tail hairs 'd be longer. These are from a mane. Found 'em this morning 'n thought ya might want 'em about now. Where were ya? I been waiting a bit."

"If you must know, I was ordering materials and securing labor for the reconstruction of this cottage. Once I get the necessary permits…"

Hagrid was totally not interested in Snape's woes vis-à-vis permits and a good deal more interested in getting back to Hogwarts. He bade Snape a good night and disapparated, leaving Snape to work on the wands. That proved to require more concentration than Snape was able to give at the moment, and he soon wended his way upstairs to an early and well deserved bed.

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	9. Chapter 9 – What's in the Belfry? 3

**STORY NUMBER TWO: What's in the Belfry? – Part 3**

_Thursday, July 22, 1999_

The next morning, Fred Allsop picked Snape up in his truck and, together with Sam Logan, they drove into Nelson, where the Borough Council for Pendle was located. They were actually a small procession, since Ernie Hackett, Oscar Wainwright, and Charlie Latimer followed in Ernie's pickup truck. They were looking for a little excitement in an otherwise routine existence.

Excitement is a relative term, and all five pub cronies had expectations considerably below the thrill of dropping twenty-two stories in less than four seconds at the Scream Zone at Great America. They were not to be disappointed.

"Are you sure you have title to this property?" the near-sighted clerk asked as Snape struggled with the complexities of completing an application for planning consent. "And you seem to be a bit young…"

The clerk had not noticed the appearance of a tapered rod of rowan wood in Snape's hand, but the other men had, and nudged each other in well-controlled mirth. "I look younger than I am," said Snape, an observation that had the virtue of being true. As he spoke, the wand flicked in the direction of the clerk.

"Ah, yes, I see that now. No offense meant. Now as to the title…"

"We're neighbors come to attest that the property's been in the same family for generations." Latimer spoke with a calm assurance that the others backed up with nods and expressions of assent. "Do we have to draw up a document to that effect?"

"Umm… No, I don't think so. Now are you sure this isn't permitted development? You might not need the consent…"

"There's a wastewater treatment system going in…"

"Of course."

Snape's wand moved again. "We were getting a bit concerned, you see, because of the time. If you'd look at the date on the application…"

The clerk peered closely at the paper in his hand. "Dear, dear," he muttered. "How did that one get by us. You're quite correct; it should have been…" He reached for the receiver of the telephone on his desk. "Half a mo'…"

"You got to tell me where I can get one of those," Allsop whispered to Snape as the clerk began to speak to someone on the other end of the line.

"Brian, old boy? Greg here. Sorry to interrupt your morning, but I'm hoping you have a bit of a free docket today… No, no, not at all… Well, I hate to say so, but it seems we let one slip through the cracks, and… Me, actually, I think… Well, there's no need… I really don't think it will take any time at all, just approve a domestic waste treatment site… Not an inspection, old boy, just a quick look-around so they can get started… Over by Weets Hill… In the office right now – a whole delegation in fact… No, quite nice, very understanding about… Good, good. Thanks Brian, I owe you one."

"He'll be over in a minute," the clerk smiled blandly at the group of men. "He just has to be sure the site's appropriate for whatever system you put in. Don't want to contaminate the local water after all, you know."

"Of course not," said Snape, equally blandly.

A few minutes later, a stocky, mustached man with sandy hair entered the office. "Which client is it," he asked Greg.

"All of them," Greg replied. "The owner is the young man… Mr. Richard Snape, Mr. Brian Smith."

The men shook hands all around. "You've brought quite a support group with you, Mr. Snape."

"Friends of the family," said Latimer. "The lad's come into an inheritance and decided to fix it up. It'll be good to have the place lived in again. We're just initiating him into the world of construction."

As the men piled into the trucks, and Smith into his car, Snape whispered to Allsop, "We need to get there first. He can't see the plumbing that's already there, or he'll get suspicious."

"Can't you just make him see what you want him to see?"

"I'd rather not do any more mind tricks than I have to. The other is easier and has less potential for long-term damage. I only need a few minutes."

"Right you are," said Allsop. He went over to exchange a word with Hackett. "He'll be in front of the inspector. You'll get ten minutes."

"Perfect," said Snape.

With Hackett's truck driving slowly in front of the car on the narrow road, Allsop reached the cottage well ahead of the county official. Snape was out of the vehicle before it stopped moving, the series of spells he needed already worked out in sequence during the ride. The yard and garden became overgrown, the stone dirty and worn, the paint chipped and peeling, one window acquired a long crack, and a few tufts of grass sprouted on the roof. Then Snape dashed inside where he had a bit more time. The most important thing was to remove the plumbing features. After that, a little distress and dirt, the bathroom changed to a storage area, and it was done. Snape ran back outside where the inspector was already checking the slope of the land and its proximity to the little stream below.

"Plenty of room for a proper drainfield," Smith said as he went through a check list. "You have quite a garden here, once you've had time to tend it. You'll want to be especially careful about maintenance. The plants will get lots of nutrients, but an algae bloom could damage them. Can you show me the existing well, and where the plumbing is going in?"

Just to be on the safe side, Snape explained the movement of the doors and the change in the layout of the interior walls while he was showing the inspector the future locations of kitchen and bathroom sinks, tub, and toilet. Smith confirmed that everything came under the heading of 'permitted development' as long as he didn't do anything to the chimney and its existing flues, which he pronounced in excellent condition. It was, all in all, a simple, straight-forward inspection, and Smith drove away twenty minutes later leaving Snape with an official piece of paper that said he could start renovation right away.

It now being around noon, Snape offered to pay for pints all around, and the men drove happily back into the village for a well-earned pub lunch and the opportunity to recount the whole adventure to Morley, Roach, and Ridley, who joined them.

"What I want to know," said Logan morosely after things had calmed down a bit and he was well into his second pint. "is why she didn't use that on us. Couldn't she have waved one of those things at us and tricked us into setting the fire in the wrong place? Or at least have got away?"

The others looked uncomfortable. There seemed to be a general feeling that if Snape didn't need to talk about the fire, they didn't either. Only Logan was driven to revisit the incident, maybe because he'd spent the most time in prison.

Snape took a deep swallow of the ale in front of him, paused, and then sighed. "She wasn't that strong," he said. "Not powerful. Certainly not with mind spells. She was first and foremost a healer, a potions brewer, and a herbologist. And believe me, that's quite enough for one witch."

"I recall," said Bert Morley thoughtfully, "back when our Bill fell from that roof, she needed your help. You were just a lad then – a bit younger than you are now – but she said you had a 'gift' that she didn't have. He was out cold, but you could look in his eyes and see the ruptured spleen."

"I couldn't have healed him, though. Not then."

"You could now," Allsop stated firmly, "if curing people is anything like curing horses."

"We have a remarkably talented healer at the school where I was working," Snape explained. "I learned a lot from her. My grandmother was born knowing it." He traced the grain of the wooden table with a finger. "The police told me that she never woke up… she never got out of bed that night. They probably put a spell on her, too." Then, suddenly, things began to click together, and Snape drained the glass. "You'll excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to get back to the cottage. There's a lot to do before the material comes, on…"

"Monday," said Roach with a smile. "You can start on Monday."

After Snape had gone, the group rounded on Logan. "You have to keep bringing up his grandmother," Hackett chided. "Can't you see he doesn't want to talk about it?"

"You got to stop putting yourself first, Sam," added Wainwright. "You open too many old wounds, and he may leave."

Logan said nothing, but grunted as he drank his beer.

Snape, meanwhile, felt as if he were racing a clock. He tried desperately to shut his mind down as he strode home, but the old locks, bolts, and doors either weren't there or would no longer work at his will. He forced himself to think about other things – the path, the flowers, the wands he was working on – until he was level with his own yard. Then he began calling for help.

"Nelson! Nelson! There's a good boy! I need you!"

After a moment, Nelson appeared out of the trees. He didn't look happy (though Snape would have been at a loss to explain how he knew), as if he'd been rudely awakened from an early afternoon snooze. Snape lost no time with his instructions.

"Hugh Latimer," he told Nelson. "The one you went to before. Go get Hugh Latimer and ask him to come here. I'll be inside."

_"Hoo-oo,"_ said Nelson, rising on silent wings and heading toward the village.

Hugh, once again on duty, understood immediately what the highly excited owl was trying to tell him, got Nick Cranmer on the mobile phone to let him know that he, Hugh, might be out of touch for a while, then biked over to Snape's cottage, Nelson gliding above him all the way.

The front room was pretty much as Hugh expected to find it. Young Snape was lying immobile on the sofa, his face pale and to all appearances lifeless. The low table had been drawn close to the sofa, and the pensieve placed on it. In the pensieve floated a faint, silver thread of mist.

"Are you all right in there?" Hugh asked calmly, as if this was a regular occurrence, which it was becoming.

The mist coalesced. "No, I'm not all right," mannikin Snape retorted. "What's happening to me makes schizophrenia look like a child's game. What took you so long? Boozing it up at the pub whilst on duty?"

"I happen to have gotten here rather quickly." Hugh drew his brows together in an effort to look stern. "You'd better start improving your attitude to us when we come to help you, or you may find help somewhat scarce."

"Are you threatening me! I'm going to report you to the county, you poor excuse for a peace officer! Get me out of here and put me back into that thing!"

"I'm not sure I want to," said Hugh, settling into the armchair and folding his arms across his chest.

There was a moment's silence as pensieve Snape mentally ran through his options. "Why not?" he asked finally.

"I'd like a couple of questions answered," said Hugh, "and I don't think I'll get answers if I put you back." He paused, but there was no rejoinder from Snape. "The first one, how many of you are there?"

"That's a stupid question," Snape said with a sneer. "It's just me."

"No, it isn't. To begin with, he," Hugh gestured toward the unconscious body, "is a lot nicer than you are. Really quite a pleasant young man. You, on the other hand, have a nasty streak to you, which brings me to the second question. Why are you trying to manipulate me and Gillian?"

Both questions had taken Snape by surprise. It was the second that he jumped on. "Manipu..! Are you accusing me of not being honest with you! When haven't I been honest with you!"

"That whole wand business for one. When you asked Gillian to try the wand, you still had yours. That means she wasn't using a complete wand. When I tried it, you made sure the two parts of the wand had been reunited. It wasn't an equal test."

Snape pouted. "I didn't do it on purpose. I was upset at the time – getting stranded for a day and a half in a pensieve will do that to you."

"I'll take your word for it," said Hugh with a bit of a grin. "You may want to try the wand experiment again. What about the first question?"

"Only two, him and me. Except that I haven't noticed that there's a difference."

"Which of you is most like the original?"

"How am I supposed to know! I told you, I hadn't noticed any difference."

"All right," Hugh sighed. "Let's get you back where you belong." He found the physical wand and held it out to touch the pensieve wand. In very short order, Snape was sitting up on the sofa, trying to move slowly so as not to get dizzy. "How are you feeling?" Hugh asked.

"Better, thank you," said Snape. He glanced up at Hugh, who was standing over him. "I hate to admit it," he said, "but you may be right. I don't feel as…"

Hugh waited a moment and then prompted. "As what?"

"It's hard to describe. Nervous, tense, apprehensive… Like something's attacking me, and I have to defend myself against it. Like if I lose control, something bad will happen."

"Why did you lose control?"

"You mean separating like that? I think it was the conversation in the pub. It got around to the day Nana… my grandmother died. I said maybe they'd put a spell on her so that she couldn't wake up once the fire started, and then I remembered that I'd created spells like that when I worked for them."

"Do you think they used one of your spells on her?"

Snape frowned. "That's not possible. She died while I was still in school. I didn't join his organization until after I left school. I wasn't thinking logically on the way home, though. I was thinking that I'd helped kill her. I guess since I was the one they wanted, in a way I did. And I know some of my spells were used against other people."

Both were silent for a moment, and then Snape continued. "I knew it was going to happen this time. All the way home I knew I had to hurry because it was going to happen again. I called Nelson while I was still outside. There was this strange, kind of sweet smell…"

"Oh, really?" was all that Hugh said.

Snape stood up. "As long as I have you here, I have a couple of wands I'm working on. I have to finish them by next Wednesday – full moon, you know. It is still Thursday, isn't it?"

Hugh assured him that it was, and the two went into the kitchen where Snape showed him the handles and shafts of the four wands and the apple bud and unicorn hair.

"From a real unicorn?" Hugh asked, looking skeptical. "Where are there unicorns in Britain?"

"The only ones I know of are in Scotland," Snape admitted. "There may be others."

Hugh laughed. "Scotland. Gillian's going to love that."

Gillian, as it turned out when Hugh recounted to her the events of his day, was more interested in the sweet smell than the wands. They were in the kitchen where she was looking at some of her textbooks, taking down an occasional note in a small spiral pad.

"Phantosmia," she told Hugh. "Phantom smells. Some epileptics experience them shortly before a seizure. It's a kind of olfactory aura. I've also heard of people who had seizures because of neural trauma who exhibited phantosmia just before a seizure. I suppose it makes some kind of sense that his mental/physical splits would have similar warning symptoms. He said he had some control over it?"

"He knew it was going to happen." Hugh leaned back in his chair, staring at the kitchen ceiling, his hands locked behind his head. "I think he realized it while he was still in the pub, rode all the way home on his bicycle, sent his owl after me, and even managed to get out that bowl and lie down on the sofa. He couldn't stop it, but he could delay it."

"And he admits he has two different personalities?"

"Apprehensive, he said about the inner one, the mentality, tense. Like he was being attacked and defending himself. Afraid of losing control."

"The others have hinted that he has a history of being verbally abusive. I wish I could watch him in action. In a classroom, I mean. I wish I knew something about his family background."

Hugh grinned. "That's the trouble with these college students. You give them a basic course in elementary psychology, and they think they have a PhD. Don't probe too much, Gill, my dear. You could cause more harm than good. Hey!"

Gillian had thrown her pen at him. Hugh tossed it back at her, thus initiating a brief but energetic exchange of projectiles that included the pen, a pencil, the note pad, two erasers, and eventually portions of the evening paper wadded into makeshift cannonballs. Then hostilities ceased and peace was negotiated.

"Wait a minute," said Hugh, after Gillian disengaged from the negotiating process in order to fix supper, "maybe you can watch him in action."

"How?" Gillian paused in her chopping of an onion to turn and face him. Hugh had to admit that the picture of his wife in an apron, tears in her eyes and a lethal weapon brandished in her hand was, for him, the iconic epitome of domestic bliss. He allowed himself to take it in for a few seconds.

"Don't they use that bowl thing – that pensieve – to revisit memories? Maybe you could get Harry to let you see one of his from one of Professor Snape's classes. It might tell you something."

"Hugh Latimer," Gillian cried, "sometimes you can still amaze me. That's a great idea!" She thought for a moment. "How can you get in touch with Harry? We don't know his phone number."

"On the other hand," Hugh pointed out, "that could constitute an invasion of Mr. Snape's privacy."

Gillian snatched up one of the newspaper balls and threw it at his head.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Friday, July 23, 1999_

Mark Savage glanced up from his desk at the mousy-looking clerk who had dared invade his personal domain. "Yes…?" he said in that tone that conveys the idea 'Say what you want to say in as short a time as possible and then leave me alone.'

"Sir, I, uh, wanted to consult you on a little anomaly we're getting. It's sporadic low-scale activity in a rural, predominantly muggle area where there haven't been any magical families for more than twenty years."

"You're Miss Perks, aren't you? How predominant is the muggle population?"

"One hundred percent. At least until the beginning of the summer."

"But there was a magical presence twenty years ago."

"Yes, sir."

"It sounds simple, Miss Perks. It sounds like old families moving back into their former homes. I don't think you need to worry about it."

Sally-Ann sighed. "That's what Harry said. He said there was no point in investigating it."

Savage's eyes sparked with sudden fire. "Potter advised you to leave it alone? That changes the situation somewhat. Miss Perks, if you would like to make a field investigation, you have my permission to do so. Report to me and share your findings with no one else. Most certainly not Potter."

xxxxxxxxxx

That very same morning, partly because Hugh had a day off, Mr. and Mrs. Latimer decided to take a stroll out to the west side of the village and make sure that Mr. Snape was recovering from the stress of the day before. They found him, plans in hand, trying to make a list of everything that had to be done, and in what order, when the first of his supplies, including the equipment for the septic system, arrived on Monday.

"Of course I'm all right," Snape told them rather brusquely. "Why shouldn't I be all right?"

"I don't care how many times you do it," Gillian replied, "splitting in two can never be easy."

"Nonetheless, I am fine. I thank your husband for his role in my recovery. If you like, I shall write up a commendation and recommend him for the Victoria Cross, second class. Now if you will excuse me…"

Gillian changed course. "Are those the final plans for the remodeling? Could you show them to me?"

Snape's mood improved at once, and he and Gillian, plans in hand, went through the entire house checking where walls would be moved and, in the largest bedroom, where the new clothes closet would be.

"And in the entry hall, for guests' coats?" Gillian asked.

"Hooks or pegs on the wall," said Snape. "I suppose they could be decorative." They'd ended up in the kitchen where Snape offered coffee and toast, and where Hugh pointed out to Gillian the little row of wands.

"Have you finished one?" he asked Snape. "This one has its handle attached."

"Apple wood," said Snape, doing an imitation of Ollivander at the Triwizard Tournament that was totally lost on Hugh. "Nine and five-eighths inches, unicorn hair core, slightly springy. I haven't tried it yet."

"May I?"

"Be my guest."

"Don't you have to say some kind of spell over it?" Gillian asked. "To start it up, I mean?"

"I don't know," said Snape. "I never made a wand before and all the books I might consult are where I can't get to them." He paused, thinking of the spot in the Forbidden Forest not too far from Hagrid's hut. "Not without help, anyway."

Hugh picked up the finished wand, hefting its slight weight experimentally in his hand. "What do I do?"

"Lets try putting a memory in the pensieve," Snape suggested. "The spell is usually said – or thought, rather – by the person releasing the memory, so all you have to do is remove it. You did something similar with my wand, so it might be a good test of this one."

The three gathered around the low table in the front room, and Snape showed Hugh how to hold the wand against his temple. "Now, I'll think the spell, and you slowly draw the wand away. Keep pulling until the thought is free, then put it in the pensieve."

At Snape's nod, Hugh began the extraction of the silver filament of thought, which came away quite easily from Snape's head. A few seconds later, it floated in the basin. "Well that worked," said Snape. "Would you like to try an actual spell?"

"Sure," said Hugh. "Why not?"

"Probably the easiest is a simple light spell. No special wand movement. Just hold it in front of you and say 'Lumos.'" Snape had high hopes for the Lumos spell. Squibs had been known to produce a Lumos in an emergency.

_"Lumos,"_ said Hugh, to no effect. At Snape's coaching he tried to put more authority into his voice. _"Lumos,"_ he repeated over and over until interrupted by a popping sound from the yard.

"Company," Snape said, glancing out the window. Then he was on his feet in a panic. "Oh, no! It's that Perks girl coming to check why there's magic here. She can't see me! Look, you be the resident wizard. Small, household magic, that's all you do. If she brings up a place called Hogwarts, admit ignorance because you were home schooled."

With that Snape fled up the stairs to the bedrooms, leaving Hugh still sitting in the front room with the wand in his hand.

Gillian rose and opened the door before Sally-Ann had the opportunity to knock. "We heard you pop in," she said with a smile. "I must admit you've taken us by surprise. We don't usually get guests out here." This was, in fact, true, since Hugh and Gillian's guests normally came to their home in the village.

Sally-Ann was only nineteen, and this was her first field mission. She tried to act in an official manner. "My name is Perks, and I'm from the Ministry of Magic. I'm here to check on some irregular magical activity…"

"Irregular?" Gillian began, but Hugh was already at her elbow.

"Shouldn't you be a bit more cautious?" he asked. "Talking about Ministries like that before you determine who we are. For all you know, we might be…"

"Muggles?" said Sally Ann, who was muggle-born herself and therefore less sensitive to the telltale traces of normalcy that would have alerted a pureblood. "I don't think so. There's been too much magic coming out of this place."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"This is a high-density muggle area. There hasn't been any magic here for two decades."

"If you know that," Hugh replied, "then you know that this was once the residence of a magical family. I used to play here when I was a child. Look around, Miss Perks. Do you see any muggles nearby? Believe me, neither my wife nor I practice magic around muggles."

Sally-Ann's gaze shifted down to the wand in Hugh's hand. "I hope you don't think I'm a threat to you. You could get into trouble attacking an employee of the Ministry."

"This?" said Hugh, holding the wand up. "Don't worry. I won't use it on you. In fact, it's brand new. I'm just testing it to make sure it works."

"I'm sure Ollivander already did that. He wouldn't sell a nonworking wand."

"I didn't buy it."

Her eyes narrowing, Sally-Ann regarded Hugh with a stern look. "Do you have a license to make wands?"

Now Hugh wasn't a policeman for nothing; he knew when he was being bluffed. "You don't need a license to make wands," he said. He held the wand out to his side. _"Lumos!"_ he commanded. The tip of the wand glowed green; Gillian raised her eyebrows. "I think it needs some more work," said Hugh, disappointment in his voice.

"One more thing," Sally-Ann sighed. "Are there any minors in the family? We have to trace activity around minors."

Gillian put her arm around Hugh's waist. "We haven't been married that long," she said coyly.

Sally-Ann blushed. "All right, then. It doesn't look like you're breaking any laws. Can I have your names for the records?"

"Hugh and Gillian Latimer," Hugh told her. "And if you ever need to return, I'd appreciate it if you were a bit more circumspect. The rest of the community think we're muggles, and it would cause comment if someone saw you popping in like that."

As Sally-Ann started back toward the road to disapparate, Gillian called after her. "By the way, you'll be seeing more activity over the next couple of weeks. The house is being renovated, and we're stretching the job out so passersby don't get suspicious."

"Good idea," Sally-Ann called back. "Thank you for your time. Sorry to have disturbed you." And then she was gone.

Snape was back downstairs in an instant. "You were brilliant!" he cried, ushering them back into the kitchen for tea and biscuits. "Masterful! That should keep the Ministry out of my hair for a while. Did you really produce a Lumos spell?"

"The end of the wand turned green," said Hugh. "A kind of phosphorescent green, a glow in the dark sort of thing. It that what it's supposed to do?"

"It's supposed to produce a green light around the wand. I'd say you did very well for the first try."

The Latimers left, and Snape returned to his tasks. He had the bundimun solution to check – it was almost ready to bottle – and food to gather for the jobberknolls. He had to finish the wands. He had to micro-plan the reconstruction of the cottage, and figure out where he was going to sleep while the work was in progress. He was, in short, going to have a very busy weekend.

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_Sunday, July 25, 1999_

It was late in the morning on Sunday, and Snape was reaching a point where he could do nothing more without leaving home. He needed the right kind of bottles for his cleaning solution. He also needed to take food to the jobberknolls again, but wanted to wait until Sunday services were over and the preacher gone. He'd toyed with the idea of using his work shed as a temporary sleeping area during construction, but decided against it and was now considering a tent – a real tent that would set off no Ministry alarms.

He was in the garden Accioing bugs when he heard the roar of Fred Allsop's truck on the road. It sounded as if Allsop was driving uncharacteristically fast, so Snape rose and went around the cottage to the front of the yard, replacing the lid on his collection jar as he walked.

Allsop was indeed racing toward Snape's cottage. In front of the lawn, he made a tight U-turn so that the truck was facing back toward the village and the passenger door was nearest to Snape. "Get in!" he called through the open window of the cab. "There's been an accident." Snape sprinted to the truck and jumped into the seat. Allsop's foot was pressing the accelerator before Snape even closed the door.

"What happened?" Snape asked. He had a vision of Bill Morley falling of the roof.

"Old Mrs. Wainwright," said Allsop, concentrating on the uneven surface of the road. "She fell in church. They're afraid she's broken her hip."

"Has anyone called for an ambulance?"

"Charlie told Mr. Davidson he was calling them from Ridley's, but they're in Barnoldswick and serve a large area with minimum resources. It'll take them ages to get here, and then they'll likely take her to Blackburn. Faster and better with you, so he got me instead."

They were outside the church. Snape descended from the truck. "Do me a favor," he said to Allsop, "call the ambulance. Even if this is easy, I'd like them to confirm it with X-rays"

"You got it," said Allsop.

The little chapel was quite crowded, more so than it had been for the service. As Snape entered, people began to nudge each other and move aside to allow him through. Mrs. Wainwright was half lying in the aisle where she had fallen, looking as if she were in considerable pain. Rev. Davidson was kneeling by her side holding her hand. Her son, Oscar, was sitting in the pew next to her. Oscar Wainwright noticed Snape first.

"It's going to be all right, Mother," he said. "Look who's here."

"Ah, they found you. Come sit by me," Mrs. Wainwright said. "I've been foolish and taken a tumble. I may have done something to the right leg."

Rev. Davidson looked concerned, but moved to make room for Snape. "Are you First Response?" he asked. When Snape nodded, he said, "You must be a lot older than you look."

Snape didn't reply. Instead he took Mrs. Wainwright's wrist to take her pulse. "A little fast, but strong," he said. "Now let me look in your eyes. I have to check the pupils. There's an ambulance on the way, and you need to keep very still 'til it gets here. Think about the fall… good… now relax and try to empty your mind… excellent."

The image Snape received through his legilimency was sharp and clear. She had been stepping out of the pew box and had twisted as she fell. There was a thin, curved crack in the femur that extended several inches. In muggle hands it might require an extensive operation or a lengthy time bedridden – neither good things for the elderly. "Do you take any medications to prevent blood clotting?" Snape asked and got an affirmative response.

"Here," Snape said to Davidson, "it's got to be awkward for her, propped up like this. If she lies flat, it could shift the bone and maybe cause more damage. Would you move around me and let her lean against you? It would give her more ease." Davidson obeyed. If he had misgivings, he chose not to voice them.

"It would also be better," Snape added in a slightly louder voice, "if we could clear the area. We could use more air, and the lady deserves some privacy."

As the little crowd dispersed toward the door, Snape leaned closer to Mrs. Wainwright. "It may take a while for the ambulance to get here, so we're going to make you more comfortable. I'm going to try a little hypnotism technique if you don't mind."

The old woman took his hands, her fingers resting on the tip of the wand that had slipped into the palm of his hand. "Hypnotism," she said with a wink. "I suppose that's one term for it."

Slowly, softly, his eyes locked with hers, Snape began to croon an ancient tune, like a chant or mantra. There was no question that the effect on his listeners was mesmerizing.

It took the ambulance only forty-five minutes to arrive, which the villagers assured Snape later was quite decent time. It was fortunate for Snape, since it gave him a chance to get some things done.

His first concern was excessive bleeding. Some bleeding was necessary for the fracture to knit, but it also had to clot, something complicated by the pills Mrs. Wainwright took to prevent a stroke. Snape was, however, quite good at staunching blood flow. He had it under control in about ten minutes.

The second concern was the fracture itself, and here Snape had to admit that Pomfrey was much better at bones than he was. It flitted across his mind that he should prepare a bone-setting potion to have on hand, but that might get him in trouble with the authorities if they found he was administering medicine without a medical license. Pushing the thought from his mind, Snape concentrated on inducing the bone to knit.

It didn't take long before Mrs. Wainwright's face began to relax and her breathing to become deeper and slower. By the time the paramedics arrived, she was dozing.

That caused an initial moment of concern. "Is she unconscious?" one of the paramedics asked Rev. Davidson – the man with the clerical collar must be the one in charge.

"I think she's just sleeping," Davidson replied.

"Did you give her any painkillers?" The paramedic knelt beside his patient, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around her arm. (I have to get myself one of those, Snape thought.)

"Nothing," said Davidson. "No one gave her anything. This young man's a hypnotist, though, and it seems to have relaxed her."

"Blood pressure's normal," said the paramedic, "temperature, pulse rate, normal. It doesn't seem to have harmed her. Ma'am? Ma'am, do you think you could wake up for me?"

Mrs. Wainwright opened her eyes, which were bright and focused. "Got here at last, did you?" she said. "It's about time."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"I missed my step getting out of the pew to take communion and fell down. It was a stupid thing to do."

"Are you in any pain?"

"Not as much as I was. It hurt a lot at first, but it's better now. Can I go home?"

"I think it's best we get you into hospital and check you over thoroughly. Just to be sure."

Wainwright, who had been silent all the while, spoke up. "My mother says she's well enough to go home."

"I think it's better she go to hospital," said Snape. "The hypnotism may still be masking some of the pain, and it's always better to be safe than sorry."

As the paramedics prepared Mrs. Wainwright for transfer to the trolley and then to the ambulance, Snape pulled Wainwright to one side. "Knitting bones is tricky," he said. "I'd feel better if they X-rayed the leg to be sure. I can visit her there and continue the treatment if she has to be admitted, but I'm reasonably sure that she's healed enough so they won't have to operate."

Wainwright nodded. "Whatever you think's best," he said. "She's not going to like it, though."

"Tell her it's her fault for falling in the first place," said Snape, and Wainwright smiled wryly.

A half hour later, Wainwright and Snape were squeezed into Allsop's truck and heading behind the ambulance to Royal Blackburn Hospital. Before they left, Snape had found Wally Hackett and given him the food for the jobberknolls. Wally was smart enough to wait until the curate was gone to his next village before climbing up to the roof of the chapel.

Once at the hospital it became a waiting game, something that neither Oscar Wainwright nor his mother was good at. Bureaucracy, monitoring, waiting for equipment to be free – it was late afternoon before the X-rays were taken and almost supper time before the doctor gave the Wainwrights the news.

"You're very lucky. See this? It's a hairline fracture in the bone. With your osteoporosis I would have expected it to be bigger. We can treat it with a simple cast, but you'll have to be hospitalized until we're sure it's healing properly…"

"Who's going to take care of my chickens?" Mrs. Wainwright demanded.

That evening, upon returning to Weetsmoor and before he could go home, Snape was initiated into the joys of chicken farming by Oscar Wainwright and Fred Allsop. This involved, first, remaking the acquaintance of the little border collie, who was officially Vinegar Tom, but went by the nickname of Vinny. Vinny was by nature a guard dog and enjoyed having Snape to practice on.

After finally making a truce with the dog, Snape got his first lesson with the chickens. They roamed over an extensive, fenced, grassy area where they could eat both vegetation and insects. White, with bright red combs, short legs, and five toes on each foot, they strutted, clucked, pecked gently at each other, and came trotting over the moment Wainwright appeared, knowing they were about to be fed.

"What kind are they?" Snape asked as Wainwright filled bags with feed for the three of them to wear over their shoulders and broadcast to the birds.

"Dorkings. Good for meat; good for eggs. They say they've been here since Roman times. Very old breed."

"What's in the feed?" Snape fingered the dry meal, examining its uneven color and texture.

"Grain, alfalfa, fish meal, oyster shell… Don't know exactly."

"Fish meal? Chickens eat meat?"

"Of course they do. Left to themselves they eat flies, gnats, worms, caterpillars, maggots. A vegetarian chicken is a malnourished chicken."

"Oh," said Snape. "I'll take your word for it."

After the feeding, the chickens had to be herded into the barn. Vinny helped a little, but most of the motivation was provided by the chickens themselves. After all, they did this every day and were used to it. Snape's only problem was the two roosters. Roosters are highly territorial. Fighting comes naturally to them.

The animals now cared for – for Vinny had been fed and taken care of as well – Allsop dropped Snape off at his cottage.

"Will you have time tomorrow to go to Blackburn?" Wainwright asked as Snape stepped down from the cab.

"The first shipment of material is coming tomorrow," Snape said. "Maybe in the afternoon."

"I'll check with you," said Wainwright, then he and Allsop drove away.

It had been quite a day, and Snape was tired. As he settled down to a light supper and a cup of tea, he thought things over. "An apple orchard of some unspecified variety that has seeded itself. I need to go look at that area again. Chickens from an ancient stock. That might not be so odd. For all I know, thousands of poultry farmers all over Britain raise the same breed. Buildings three hundred and more years old. Wild owls that are instinctive messengers. Bundimuns, jobberknolls, and bowtruckles. A copper who can make the tip of a wand glow. I wonder what's special about Ernie Hackett's pigs? Or Allsop's horses? I need to get to bed; tomorrow's going to be another long day."

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_Monday, July 26, 1999_

The first truck arrived at 8:30 in the morning with the equipment for the septic system, followed closely by a range of vehicles containing the crew from the pub, all of whom had dealt with this esoteric machinery before. They started poring over the instructions and laying things out on the ground behind the cottage.

Next came the material for the foundations – stone of various types (not a huge quantity since that was one part of Nana's house that could be reused), concrete, mortar, plaster. Another truck brought the pipes and fixtures for the plumbing, yet another the lumber, and a small van supplied panes of glass for the windows. Thousands of nails, dozens of screws, prefabricated doors… By noon deep ruts had been carved into the dirt road and the denizens of Weetsmoor were making bets on just how many hundredweight of material was strewn around the isolated little cottage. A small crowd of mostly young boys gathered around the edges of Snape's property to watch.

_Talk about violating the Statute of Secrecy,_ Snape thought as he joined the men in the back. _It's a good thing Perks came Friday and not today. If this gets out I'm going to be in a lot of trouble._

The area for the drainfield of the septic system had been marked out and little flags placed where ditches needed to be dug. "Are you sure?" Snape kept saying as the men told him how wide and how deep the ditches had to be. They were, he was repeatedly informed, sure.

"All right," said Snape, taking out his wand. "Let's get this project going." Pointing the wand at the first of the flags, he cried, _"Effodio humum!"_ and the dirt began to fly.

The digging took about half an hour, but only because Snape was careful and kept asking the men to double check everything. When he was done, Charlie Latimer said, "That's it. We won't need you for a couple of hours."

"Are you sure?" Snape asked for perhaps the ten-thousandth time.

"What we want now," said Latimer, "is a couple of hours of peace and quiet to get this thing assembled. Seems like now might be a good time to go visit Cora."

"Cora?" Snape asked.

"My mother," said Wainwright. "Would it be all right?"

With everyone else insisting that Snape's presence would be a positive hindrance at the construction site, which Snape had to concede was very likely true, he and Wainwright drove off in Allsop's truck to visit Mrs. Wainwright in hospital.

Snape brought the plans for the cottage with him, together with a couple of sketches of what he planned for the elevations and interiors, and he and Mrs. Wainwright entertained each other for a good forty-five minutes while Oscar sat back contentedly and listened.

"It does an old woman good to have someone to talk to," Mrs. Wainwright confided. "You get to the point where so many of your friends are dead, there's no one left to talk to. I've been worried for some time I might fall and no one find me for ages. Silly, because Oscar checks on me every day to see I'm all right. I'm fortunate to have the chickens. Lots of older people have to worry about every penny, whether they'll have enough to eat."

Then Mrs. Wainwright lay back while Snape took out his wand and began the low, soothing chant of the day before. Oscar left them to find the hospital cafeteria.

The doctor, passing through the ward, paused to listen and watch, for Snape hadn't bothered to draw the privacy curtains completely closed. After a moment, the doctor sought out the duty nurse. "That feels a bit like a religious ceremony," he commented. "They're not obstructing her treatment, are they?"

The nurse shook her head. "They were very polite and cooperative when I brought her medications," she told him. "He hasn't touched her or tried to give her anything, and as near as I can tell, he and the son have been advising her to do everything you prescribe. They were even suggesting you take more X-rays."

"Well, that's all right then. A little mumbo-jumbo might help her relax and rest, and that would assist healing. You let me know if they start advocating strange treatments, though."

Later that afternoon, after Snape and Oscar had gone, the nurse returned with the next round of meds. "What's that?" Mrs. Wainwright asked of every pill before she obediently swallowed it. One small white capsule, however, brought the reply, "Your painkiller, dear."

"I don't need any more painkillers," Mrs. Wainwright said. "I'm not in any pain."

"There is nothing salutary about enduring pain," chided the nurse, "and no value in trying to brave it through. If you're in pain, you should let us treat it."

"But if I'm not in pain, wouldn't it be worse to take an unnecessary pill?"

The nurse conceded the point, extracting from Mrs. Wainwright in return the promise to tell someone at once if the pain returned.

"Oh, yes," added Mrs. Wainwright as the nurse was leaving. "I know you hope to start my physical therapy as soon as possible. How about tomorrow?"

xxxxxxxxxx

The septic system was installed and ready for inspection when Snape returned to his cottage. Since they couldn't fill everything until it was inspected, all agreed to call it a day and repair to the pub for some well-earned pints. The next day the real work would begin.

Snape, however, apologized and asked to be excused. He would join them the next day, but at the moment he had pressing business. The truth was that his conversation with Mrs. Wainwright had bothered him deeply. After the others had left, with the sun still high in the summer afternoon sky, he mounted his bicycle and headed southwest to visit Mrs. Hanson.

This time when Snape left his bicycle at the gate and knocked on the door, someone was home. The front curtain twitched a little as that someone checked who was calling, and then the door opened wide. "Richard!" Mrs. Hanson cried, reaching out to hug Snape, but then pulling back a little. "I'm sorry, dear, that's a habit. I used to hug your father. Would you like some tea?"

"That would be very nice, thank you."

Mrs. Hanson chatted continuously as she fixed the tea and got out a couple of biscuits. As Snape listened, he looked around, paying much more attention to the condition of the house than he had the time before. It looked very shabby and untidy. How long had it been since he'd visited before? Three years?

In the pause while Mrs. Hanson warmed the pot, Snape asked, "Don't you still take in boarders?"

"Love you, child, I haven't done that for years now. I haven't the money or the energy to keep the place up, and nobody wants t' live this side of town anymore. You've seen how poor it's got, and there's much more crime than there used to be. I have t' admit I worry from time to time, living alone. But I can't afford t' move, and I haven't anything worth stealing."

"You had a sister, didn't you? In Manchester?"

Mrs. Hanson gave him a shrewd look as she brought the teapot to the table and covered it with a cozy. "I'd have thought your father'd have more important things t' tell you about than the business of an old woman from his childhood."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

"You weren't being rude. Sit. Tea 'll be ready in a minute." When Snape had seated himself and accepted one of the biscuits, Mrs. Hanson poured the tea. "What d' you know about your great… great grandfather?" she asked.

It took Snape a few seconds to work that out. "Wensley Snape? He was a seaman. He had a wonderful collection of strange things from all over the world…"

"Magical things. D' you know why? It was because he believed in them. He believed in the magic and in all the old stories from around here." She leaned forward. "He wanted a witch in the family, so he found a girl for your… grandfather from over around Weets Hill. Your grandmother could do strange things – when she thought no one was watching. So could your father. He could change channels on the telly without getting up to turn the dial." For a moment she and Snape just looked at each other, eye to eye across the table, neither blinking. "Your 'father' never had any children," Mrs. Hanson continued. "If he had, he'd have told me."

It didn't take Snape more than a second to reach a decision. After all, he'd had a lot of practice lately. "How long have you known?" he asked.

"About your mother? Since before you were born. None of us ever talked t' her about it, of course. Eileen wanted to fit into the neighborhood and did a good job of it. The others gossiped about her. For most, the general feeling was it couldn't be true. If she was a witch, why hadn't Toby a better house and job? About you? The day you set that Neil Phillips back on his seater for hitting your foot with a block."

"I don't remember that!" Snape laughed.

"You weren't but a year old. And then when Eileen had t' take odd jobs, I went over t' mind you. You were always doing little things – snatching stuff from across the room. I never told Eileen for fear she'd think she had to stay home."

They chatted quite easily after that, and Snape explained why he looked so young. He couldn't stay, though, since he had to get back to Weetsmoor before it got dark. As he was leaving, he asked Mrs. Hanson, "If you had the chance to live somewhere else, would you want to?"

"Love you, child, in a heartbeat. Look around you." She indicated the dirty street and the boarded up windows. "Who'd want to live here unless they had to?"

Snape managed to get home before dark and went into his own kitchen to have more tea and think. There were so many things needing his attention. The wands had to be finished tomorrow. The house would be demolished and reconstruction started. Mrs. Wainwright needed attention and healing, and now he had to consider Mrs. Hanson as well. Oh, and jobberknolls. He couldn't forget the jobberknolls.

_If I'd known things were going to get this complicated_, he thought, going up the stairs to his bedroom for the last time, _I think I'd have chosen to stay dead_.

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_Tuesday, July 27, 1999_

Snape was awake before dawn, his wands finished in time for breakfast. Then he began his final inventory of the house.

Almost all the furniture was transfigured and did not, therefore, have to be removed. Snape had a vague memory that someone had told him the things from the house in Spinner's End were stored somewhere, and he thought he really ought to ask about it. Then again, Mrs. Hanson had some quite serviceable furniture, and he probably should consult her as well.

Both thoughts were shelved for later as Snape transferred books and papers out onto the grass, protected by spells from the environment, along with the soulstone flasks, the pensieve, and his few articles of clothing. Then he remembered that the food was real, and brought it out as well. After that were the jars, vials, and flasks that either held memories or could be used to bottle cleaning potion.

What else was there that was real? Snape extracted bushes from the soil, balling their roots in transfigured burlap, and cut out large squares of turf to go on top of the turf the men had removed the day before to prepare for the ditches. That done, he searched the cottage again from top to bottom looking for something real. There was nothing permanent left.

Once again outside, Snape cast a series of spells that gradually reverted everything to its original form. Roof, walls, floors, furniture, all changed into a haphazard pile of branches, rocks, and rubble, easily removed and dumped beyond the garden.

What was left was the blackened stone foundation and sill. Even the flooring on the ground floor was gone, exposing the partially collapsed cellar. There was everything to do over again.

Snape glanced at the sun. By his reckoning it was ten o'clock. Nine o'clock summer time. Down the road from the direction of the village he could hear vehicles. His work crew was arriving.

As they climbed out of the trucks, vans, and cars, it was clear that the men were not happy to see the burned reminder of the cottage's fate. Sam Logan in particular looked as if he wanted to turn around and go in the other direction. Snape was expecting this and called them over to him.

"I just wanted you to know," he told the men, "that I thought a long time about whether or not I should do this. If there's anybody who wants to honor my grandmother's memory, it's me. But I had a dream a week ago where my grandmother told me what she wanted to do with the house. Then a few days ago I talked to Cora Wainwright, who was a friend of my grandmother's, about what she remembered. Everything tallies. My grandmother, Constantina Prince – Constantina Rossendale – did not like this house. If she had been able to choose, she would have changed it. The plans I have here are a combination of what she wanted and what I need. Where there was a conflict, I stuck to her plan. We're not just building my plan here, we're building hers. If anyone's not comfortable with that, we can postpone the work and take this up with Mrs. Wainwright. Mr. Wainwright, did I show these plans to your mother yesterday in hospital?"

"That you did, and discussed them no end, too!"

"Did she seem content with the plans?"

"That she did. She said Mrs. Prince would love it."

"There," Snape told the men. "We're not just doing this for me. We're doing it for my grandmother, may she rest easy."

The first job was the cellar. Snape let the more experienced men debate the issue, then dug where they told him to. He cut the supports and beams to the lengths they told him to, watched as they laid them in place, then drove the nails in at the places and angles they told him to. In a way he was doing most of the work, but with magic, it was a stretch to call it work.

By late afternoon they had enlarged the cellar, laid down the ground flooring, put in the ground level plumbing, set the cellar steps, and prepared the sills to receive the wooden walls. All was going very much according to plan.

"Where are you going to spend the night?" Hugh Latimer asked, having dropped by on his bicycle to evaluate the progress.

"Drat! I forgot to get a tent. I'll have to transfigure one."

"Or you could stay with us. Gillian said I should ask you."

There was no contest. After making sure the books and papers were impervious to weather, and packing the soulstone flasks and pensieve to take with him, Snape mounted his bicycle and followed Hugh into the village.

It was Snape's first time inside one of the homes in the village proper. Hugh took him upstairs to an office that doubled as a guest bedroom, the third bedroom being used for overflow storage. "Gillian brought a lot of her things when she moved down here," Hugh said by way of an apology. We haven't sorted out yet exactly what stays and what goes."

"When you do, you can have both an office and a guest bedroom," Snape pointed out.

"Probably not," said Hugh with a smile. "More likely an office and a nursery. We haven't been married quite a year yet, but we'd both like a family."

This was going above and beyond what Snape wanted to discuss, so instead he inspected his new temporary quarters. The first thing he noticed was something that looked like a desktop television and a large, rectangular metal box, both pale gray. "Is that a computer?" he asked, bending close to examine them.

"It is. You see that little box there? That's a modem. It connects me to my electronic mail and to the world wide web. It goes through the phone line, so I have to be careful. Don't want to miss incoming phone calls, you know. The biggest help is the word processing. It's so much easier than on a typewriter."

"I've never seen one before."

"Maybe I'll show you how to use it."

"Could I get one in the cottage?"

"Not without electricity. And no mail or web without a telephone line. I am afraid you're stuck in the stone age out there."

They went downstairs where Gillian was cooking supper. "Why don't you show him our poor excuse for a garden?" Gillian told Hugh. To Snape she said, "We can use all the help we can get."

The old stone houses of the village were not built up against each other, so the Latimers' garden went around both sides of the building as well as the back. It had an irregular shape, as did just about everything in Weetsmoor, with the bit on the west side being very narrow, the bit in the back somewhat wider, and the northern section going to the corner where two streets intersected in a curving T. A low stone wall marked the boundary with the neighbors' gardens.

"You're right," Snape said, noting the two sickly looking trees, the patchy grass, and the scraggly bushes. "This needs help."

"We'd like to have herbs and vegetables in addition to some flowers, but landscaping hasn't been high on our list of things to do."

"I take it this isn't the old family home."

"No. The Carters lived here. Then Grace died about five years ago – she was my father's cousin – and Reggie the year after. Their children had already left the village and had no plans to return. It was empty until I moved in the year before last around Christmas. I'd just decided to ask Gillian to marry me, you see, and needed a place."

"And you haven't done a thing with the garden."

"Not one blessed thing."

Over dinner, after polite general conversation, Gillian swung things around to the topic she was most interested in. "This school where you used to teach," she said, "what's it like?"

"It's this big old castle in Scotland," said Snape. "Just under three hundred students and a dozen teachers. A few other staff members."

"What did you teach?" This was from Hugh.

"Potions, mostly. Then Defense against the Dark Arts for a year. Then my last year I was headmaster."

"I'd love to see it," said Gillian.

"That's not possible," Snape explained. "It's protected against, eh… outsiders. If you even managed to locate where it was, all you would see was a ruined, derelict castle with 'No Trespassing' and 'Warning – Danger' signs around it. It's not open to the general public."

"'No Trespassing' and 'Warning – Danger?'" Gillian laughed. "Maybe I have seen it after all. You've got about a twenty-five to one student/teacher ratio. That's not too bad."

"Less, and the students do a great of independent study, so actual lesson time is minimal. The problem is the paperwork. In Potions I taught two hundred twenty students for a total of eighteen hours a week, but grading the weekly papers took nearly forty hours. Plus supervising and counseling – I was head of one of the houses."

They were interrupted by the doorbell. Hugh went to answer it, and a moment later brought Oscar Wainwright into the dining room. Wainwright looked immensely pleased with something.

"I thought you might like to know," he said. "I got the doctors to take another set of X-rays, and that crack on the femur is gone. There's nothing wrong with the bone. They've got a whole roomful of doctors trying to explain why the two X-rays match in all ways but that crack. They're keeping her for tonight, and they'll take another set in the morning. If there's nothing wrong then, she'll be coming home." He shifted his feet self-consciously. "I wanted to thank you," he finished bluntly, then left without waiting for a reply.

"My goodness," said Gillian. "That's the most I've heard out off Oscar in one breath since I got here. A veritable speech."

"I'm honored," said Snape. "Vinny and the chickens will be very happy as well." The subject of Hogwarts was dropped for the moment, and the dinner ended in a perfectly normal fashion.

"Hugh," Gillian said as she cleared the table. "Do you think you could pop over to Ridley's? I need more milk for tomorrow, and some butter. Is there anything you particularly like for breakfast… It seems odd to be calling you Mr. Snape right now."

Snape agreed. "Richard really is my first name, but no one ever called me that. My colleagues at school called me Severus, my middle name. My house mates when I was a student called me Sev. My parents called me Russ."

"What would you prefer?"

"Russ is good. No one in the wizarding world knows me by that name, so it would do no harm if it slipped out."

"Is there anything you'd like for breakfast then, Russ?"

"Why don't you let me go to Ridley's and do the shopping? I could pick up the milk and butter, and then get what I want as well. I'd like to help out, as long as I'm staying."

A few minutes later, Snape was in the little grocery store selecting a tin of kippered herring and debating with himself whether or not to get ham and lemons for eggs Benedict.

"So you're rooming with the Latimers during construction," Ridley said as Snape checked the price on a tin of sliced ham. "Do you think it'll be done in less than two days?"

"Two days?" said Snape. "You have an exalted idea of my talents. I'm hoping by next Monday."

"That'll be awkward," Ridley said.

"I don't see… Why?" Snape asked, the ham momentarily forgotten.

"They haven't told you, have they?"

Snape shook his head.

"Today's Tuesday the twenty-seventh. Thursday's their first wedding anniversary. I don't know what Hugh and Gillian were planning, but if it was me, a house guest wouldn't be part of it."

"Oh," said Snape. "Thank you for the head's-up. I take it that it would be extremely tactful if I found a place I had to be Thursday night."

"It might," Ridley agreed.

The next day they started on the ground floor. There wasn't much that had to be done with the kitchen walls or the massive fireplace structure, since they were ancient stone and had survived the fire basically intact. The men divided into pairs to work on the cellar steps, the finishing off of the kitchen walls – which would also be the exterior wall of the study and hall – and the framing of the panels for the interior walls of the front room. They had decided on double framing for purposes of insulation.

Snape was kept very busy with lifting, cutting, and nailing charms, and quickly learned the differences between posts, studs, beams, and joists. The only area where he had previous experience was with the stringers, risers, and treads of the stairs, having built his own in the house where he'd grown up.

Mrs. Ridley provided a picnic lunch, and midway through the afternoon Oscar brought Mrs. Wainwright around with a monstrous plate of cookies and pitchers of lemonade. They finished the day with the ground floor pretty much framed in, and after victory pints in the pub, Snape went back to the Latimers' for the evening.

Plotting her course carefully, Gillian once again brought the dinner conversation around to a description of Hogwarts which Snape provided only to be asked questions about details he couldn't answer. 'Pretty high,' it transpired, was not an adequate response to a question about the ceiling in the Great Hall.

Thus it was that Snape was brought around to the point of using the pensieve and a memory to satisfy Gillian's curiosity, and actually believed that he himself had come up with the idea. After some careful thought, he pulled a memory strand from his head and placed it in the pensieve.

"I can't guarantee this will work," he told the Latimers. "I have no information on the ability of muggles to see pensieve images." With that, he tapped the pensieve with his wand.

The Great Hall at Hogwarts rose to the surface of the basin, its hammerbeam roof studded with stars and wisps of drifting clouds. The four long house tables were full of black-robed, pointy-hatted children, except for the seats nearest the staff table, for this was the first day of the school year and the Sorting was in process. Snape manipulated the scene with his wand to show it at different angles.

"The one in the center, long silver beard, is Albus Dumbledore. The tall witch reading the names is Minerva McGonagall. You see me at the end of the table. You know Hagrid. The little old fellow on the other side of Dumbledore is Flitwick. I'm sure you understand how there might be some speculation on his ancestry. The students sit by houses. There's Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and the last table is Gryffindor."

"A door?" Gillian asked. "A door shaped like a griffin?"

"No. Just one 'o,' d-o-r."

"Oh, griffin d'or. Golden griffin in French. It sounds like a heraldic device."

"Maybe it was," Snape said. "When Hogwarts was built, people didn't yet have last names. It's very possible that Godric had a golden griffin on his shield."

The sorting was nearing an end. "Ginny Weasley," McGonagall called, and a young, familiar red-headed girl came forward to put on the Sorting Hat, which immediately called out "Gryffindor!"

"Look, Hugh. That's Ginny. Harry's friend. Where's Harry in all that crowd?"

"Potter and his friend Ron, Ginny's brother, missed the train that day and arrived late. In a moment Professor Dumbledore is going to send me out looking for them. They flew up in an enchanted car." Sure enough, shortly after mountains of food materialized on the tables, the bearded headmaster rose and whispered to the Potions master, who left both his seat and the Hall. The image in the pensieve faded out.

"That was very nice," Gillian said. "Wasn't that nice, Hugh? Can you show us one of the classrooms?"

"My own classroom wasn't typical since it was down in the dungeons…"

"Dungeons? What for?"

"It's colder there. Better for preserving the ingredients. If you like…"

Another memory strand went into the pensieve. This was a NEWT-level class with students from all the houses, all excellent potions brewers. Snape pointed out to his audience the cupboards stocked with ingredients, the braziers, the equipment for weighing and measuring… but what Gillian watched was the black-gowned figure that moved between the cauldron stations, commenting on the fineness of chopped seeds, checking the temperature of a brew. Professor and students were of a type, all focused on the task at hand, all equally passionate for the perfection of the product they were making. Kindred spirits. No sign of impatience or temper, no sign of bullying or manipulation. Gillian filed this in a corner of her mind and put a mental question mark next to Harry's name.

Snape went on to other scenes – the Great Hall at Halloween and Christmas, McGonagall's classroom, and Trelawney's, the view of the lake from the castle hill, a fast-moving game of Quidditch that Hugh wanted to keep watching, the Whomping Willow.

Suddenly it was late, and time to go to bed. Wishing the Latimers a good night, Snape went up to the guest room. He was feeling rather good, the excursion around Hogwarts having been enjoyable even for him. Being able to chose which memories to watch helped. The only problem nagging at him as he drifted off to sleep was that he hadn't yet come up with a good reason for staying away from the Latimer house the next evening.

He was sure, however, that before the moment arrived, he would think of something.

By the next morning, he had it.

"I hope you won't think I'm being a terribly rude houseguest," Snape told Hugh and Gillian over breakfast, "but I may have to abandon you after today's work is done and go up to Hogwarts."

"That would be a disappointment," said Hugh with a perfectly straight face. "We were looking forward to your company this evening."

"Does that mean you'll be gone for the night?" Gillian asked. She didn't look directly at Snape, but her cheeks were tinged with a faint rose color as she took a bite of the eggs Benedict he'd prepared for them. "This is wonderful. I've never been able to manage a hollandaise sauce."

"The trick is the proper temperature," Snape said. "The problem with this evening is that today we're framing the exterior and load bearing walls of the upper story. I have some furniture from my old home – not in great condition, I admit, but some of it serviceable – but they tell me it's in storage at Hogwarts. I can't go there during the day because someone might see me. At night, Hagrid can help me get into the storage area, and I can check what I can use, take measurements… I'm sure Hagrid will let me stay with him afterwards. I would feel guilty disturbing you at one or two in the morning."

"Will you be here for dinner before you leave?' Gillian was already mental preparing the table for a candlelit supper. She loved candles.

"No, I have a couple of other chores to do. I'll be leaving directly from the construction site."

As he was going out the door, Gillian asked, "Don't you need to take things? An overnight bag?"

"I'm a wizard," Snape said with a smile. "I can transfigure a toothbrush out of twig. I'll probably go right to the site tomorrow morning, so I'll see you tomorrow evening."

After he was gone, Hugh put his arm around Gillian's waist, and they went into the kitchen to do the washing up and to plan the rest of their day.

"He's a sweet young man," said Gillian, tying on a apron. "And in that memory we saw, where he was teaching, he was fine – quite good, actually. I wonder what Harry and Ginny, well mostly Harry, have against him."

Hugh had a towel ready for drying. "He's not so nice when he's in that pensieve bowl. Quite sarcastic, in fact. Rather nasty, especially to Harry and Hagrid. When I asked him about it last Thursday, he said he hadn't noticed his behavior was any different."

"So I need to see him in a different class, a different situation."

"I doubt he'll give you one of those memories."

"I can ask the others."?

"Not today, though, I hope," said Hugh, interfering with the dishwashing by a repeat of the hand/waist motion.

"Not today," Gillian agreed, and Snape was totally forgotten for more than twenty-four hours.

xxxxxxxxxx


	10. Chapter 10 – What's in the Belfry? 4

**STORY NUMBER TWO: What's in the Belfry? – Part 4**

At the end of the work day, Snape did not leave immediately for Hogwarts, but instead went into the village to stand for a round of drinks for the men at the pub. He then got on his bicycle and rode the miles to Mrs. Hanson's house. She did not seem surprised to see him, quite pleased, in fact.

"Mrs. Hanson," Snape said rather formally as she poured the tea. "You knew my grandmother, my real grandmother, right?"

"Mrs. Prince? I didn't meet her but one or twice. I thought her very grand. Way above the likes of me and, if you'll forgive me, above the likes of Toby, too. I often wondered why… but that's of no matter."

"Why she married him? I wish I knew that myself, though I know, despite all the problems, he did love her. What I wanted to talk about… well, I'm fixing up my grandmother's cottage in Weetsmoor – it's got a very large garden and plenty of space, and I was wondering if you'd like to come and live there. It's lacking certain modern conveniences, like a phone, but…"

"Dear, I'd love to!"

Snape and Mrs. Hanson spent a little time roaming through her house, noting down things that would be good to take with her. It would certainly spare Snape the cost of buying new furniture, and Mrs. Hanson was proud that she was contributing rather than accepting charity. It was a further plus for Snape in that he was familiar with and bore a fondness towards many of the pieces from his childhood. It made up for the fact that none of Nana's furniture had survived the fire.

"I'll have t' recover and refinish many of the pieces," Mrs. Hanson sighed. "That'll be a bit of work."

"You forget, I can do it a lot faster than you can," Snape reminded her. They were in the kitchen where he was reveling in the quantity and type of cooking equipment she had. "What you have to do is pick out fabric, paint, and wall paper. Is this a nutmeg grater?"

"It is, and I'm impressed someone your age 'd recognize it. When is this going t' happen?"

"Next week. I'm not sure which day yet. It depends on when we finish the main work. It'll be no holiday for you, though. You're in charge of decorating."

He had to leave then because he had to apparate to Scotland before it got too dark to see the way to Hagrid's hut. The idea of stumbling through the Forbidden Forest in the black of night was not a pleasant one. Leaving his bicycle with Mrs. Hanson, he apparated from her rear garden. She waved goodbye as she watched him go.

Hagrid listened to Snape's plan with some interest. "I think that's a fine idea, having that lady as a sorta housekeeper. I thought she was real nice, n' she can look out for you splinching, n' you can look out for her falling. I always did figure she understood 'bout us."

"How do you know Mrs. Hanson?"

"I went t' yer funeral. Helped arrange it with her, in fact. Didn't blink an eye when she saw me, no sir."

"I'm going to have to redo the plans for the cottage," Snape said then. "We'll have to put in a little wing off the kitchen."

"What for?"

"She has trouble going up and down stairs. Knees, I think. When I'm with her, I can help and make it easier, but she needs a bedroom where she can get to the kitchen or the front door if she's alone. A bathroom, too. It won't have to be big because she can't use a tub, so just a shower stall maybe with a seat. It will mean running more pipes under the kitchen floor…"

"Sounds like you got the matter well in hand."

Around midnight the two of them went up the hill to the castle. They went first to Snape's old office and living quarters where he made note of everything that he could honestly claim was his rather than the school's. As he searched, he made a detailed list for Hagrid, being well aware that he himself might not have the opportunity to return.

Outside in the dungeon corridor again, Snape called, "Baron? Baron, can I talk to you?"

"What're ya doing?" Hagrid whispered fiercely. "No one's supposed t' know y're here!"

"Slytherins stick together," Snape reminded him. "He'll know exactly who I am – they see through the body to the spirit. What's more important is he'll keep Peeves away from us."

Hagrid saw the wisdom in this, so they waited until the Baron arrived. Sure enough, the ghost understood immediately who and what he was communicating with and preceded the two up the stairs, ready to pounce if Peeves showed himself.

When they reached the fifth floor, Hagrid glanced around, thinking. "If we go down this hall n' around the corner, there's a stair that'll take us closer t' where the storage room is."

"No," said Snape quickly, but Hagrid had already set off, and Snape had no choice but to follow. He was not happy with the route, however, since the corridor in question was part of the last memory he had, as his old self, of the interior of Hogwarts. His mind was now replaying that moment, the shock of realizing that his closest colleagues were trying to kill him, the panic as he grasped at any means of escape…

Hagrid had turned the corner, and somehow it seemed natural, foreordained even, to hear the familiar voice say, "Och, Hagrid. Ye gave me sich a turn. What air ye doin' here this hour?"

A second later, Snape was around the corner, too, materializing out of the dimness behind Hagrid. He and McGonagall stared at each other for the length of three heartbeats, then McGonagall collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

Snape thought it best to let Hagrid revive McGonagall, as he wasn't too sure what her reaction would be if she woke up to the sight of his face looking down at her. Hagrid got his arm under her shoulders to prop her up and gently patted her face with his free hand. "There, there, Professor," Hagrid murmured. "Everything's fine. Y're gonna be all right."

McGonagall's eyelids flickered, then opened. "Oh, Hagrid," she gasped. "I think I've just seen a ghost!"

"You've seen somewhat, that's for sure," said Hagrid, "but he seems pretty solid t' me." He looked up at Snape hovering nervously several feet away.

McGonagall turned her head in the same direction. "It is you!" she cried. "What air ye doin' here? Ye committed suicide months ago!"

Snape looked around at the walls and the ceiling, and then down at the floor. "We faked it," he said sulkily, like a schoolboy expecting detention. "Me, Harry, and Robards. We faked it so that I could escape from the Ministry."

"And Hagrid was in on the secret? Who else know about this?"

"Just Ginny Weasley. Harry couldn't keep a secret from her."

"Her and a whole village full o' muggles," Hagrid added, trying to be helpful. "N' that Mrs. Hanson lady…"

"Help me to my feet, Hagrid. I'm recovered enough to stand."

McGonagall was recovered enough to do more than stand. She was in a dressing gown with a nightcap, but she immediately took the nightcap off and, advancing on Snape, began to slap him with it as he backed away, raising his arms to protect his face. "Ye evil, wicked, insensitive monster!" she berated him. "Leavin' me to think ye were dead twice, and me still sorrowing for the first time! Ye ought to be ashamed of yerself!"

"It wasn't my fault! Robards said I had to…"

"That's just like ye to blame it on Gawain! I swear, I'd do ye in right now if I wasna so sure ye 'd come back again to torment me! And me caring for ye like a mother all those years!"

"Fine words coming from a woman who was chucking knives at me last year!"

McGonagall stopped her attack and stood, breathing heavily, the nightcap clenched in her hand. Then she dropped the nightcap and gathered Snape into a hug. "Och, laddie, promise me ye won't go away again. I couldna bear it."

"I promise to try," said Snape, at which McGonagall released him and recovered her nightcap.

"Now ye'll have to come up and greet Albus. He's not been himself since we had to tell him ye 'd jumped. He said it was the sort of thing ye might do, ye see, having tried it once before from the Astronomy tower."

"Well," Snape looked over at Hagrid, "we did come here with a purpose. I mean, there's something I have to do."

"And ye can tell me all about it over a wee dram of whiskey," said McGonagall. "Now that I know ye're here, ye've lost yer need for speed and stealth. An hour won't hurt."

Snape had to concur, especially since Hagrid had brightened up at the mention of a wee dram of whiskey. He followed McGonagall up to the seventh floor and stood meekly in the shadow of the stairs outside the office door while she prepared the portrait for his appearance.

"Albus? Albus, wake up. Here's someone come to visit ye. Our wee prodigal has returned once again."

"Prodigal?" hurrumphed the portrait of Dumbledore. "That is a description that could refer to half the student body."

"It's Severus, Albus. It seems the reports of his death were greatly exaggerated."

At that, Snape entered the room. The portrait peered at him over half-moon spectacles. "Let me guess," said Dumbledore. "It was a display of histrionics primarily for the benefit of the Ministry of Magic. That would mean Gawain was in on the secret. I was unaware that either he or Harry had that much acting ability. Do sit down, Severus, and tell us all about it. Minerva, if you would…"

But McGonagall was already pouring the whiskey.

It was difficult to keep the conversation from getting a bit sentimental. McGonagall, especially, had been on an emotional roller coaster ride for more than a year, starting with the realization that she had attempted to kill, and then driven from Hogwarts, a colleague who had turned out to be on the right side after all and who, if she had not forced him into the enemy's camp, might have still been alive. Then there was the burial and the long months while portrait Dumbledore, dealing with his own grief, refused to speak.

Now she had, in rapid succession, the return of a Snape who, if not corporeal, was at least there to talk to and visit in his pensieve. That had lasted from January to April, when she was again stunned by word of his suicide. Now in July he was back again, and she leaned over from time to time just to touch the sleeve of his jacket and assure herself he was real.

Snape told them about restoring his grandmother's cottage, about Mrs. Hanson, and about the people of the village. He also told them about Nelson and the jobberknolls, the bundimuns and the bowtruckles, and even about the apple orchard, the wands, and a young muggle constable who could do rudimentary magic.

"I don't understand it," Snape admitted. "It's like a muggle village with one foot in the wizarding world."

Before the conversation could be sidetracked into the abstract, however, Hagrid spoke up. "Ya forgot t' tell them about yer splinching."

Snape was embarrassed and looked it, but Dumbledore jumped on the subject at once. "Splinching? You mean when he apparates? But Severus was always an expert at apparation."

"Nah, it ain't that kind o' splinch. He comes apart from time t' time. The mind 'n the body, I mean. He'll be fine one moment, 'n the next his body's out cold on the floor 'n his brain's a pensieve mist next t' it. It's happened a few times."

"You've given me several puzzles to consider," said Dumbledore.

Snape rose. "But not this morning," he said. "I still have to check the things that are stored here, then try to get a little sleep before I go back to Mrs. Hanson's for my bicycle and to the cottage to redo the ground floor. We'll have other times. Right now I'm too tired."

McGonagall went with Snape and Hagrid to the room where his property was stored. Snape was distressed to find it was only boxes of things that had been pulled from drawers and wardrobes. "Where's the furniture?"

"We left it in the house. I imagine that if no one has moved in, it's still there. It was quite old, Severus, and not in good condition."

Snape reflected for a moment on the fact that even he, knowing the books were no longer there, had given no thought to the old house. He doubted, given the condition of the neighborhood, if anyone had moved in. Besides, he was the legal owner. A few people knew he was dead – his father's old friends from the pub, for example – but he doubted they would have said anything to the authorities, and there was no death certificate. "I may check there. There could be something. I'll take these boxes, though."

They moved the boxes, all ten of them, down to Hagrid's hut, where Hagrid prepared a makeshift bed by the fireplace for Snape to get a couple of hours' sleep. At sunrise, they moved them magically to the forest where they could apparate and transported the boxes to Weetsmoor. Hagrid then returned to Hogwarts, while Snape went to Mrs. Hanson's for his bicycle and rode it home. The exercise helped clear his head, for he was very tired.

Snape was expecting to run into some resistance from his work crew over having to do the extra work to make a wing off the kitchen. He was mistaken.

"Widow lady, eh?" said Bert Morley. "You wouldn't happen to know about how old?"

That took some quick calculations. "She isn't much older than my mother was. Mid to late sixties, I'd guess."

Morley glanced over at Sam Logan, who had been listening to the conversation. It suddenly struck Snape that one of the reasons the men spent so much time in the pub was that they were probably widowers. He had a feeling that Mrs. Hanson was about to become a social butterfly, and wondered if he ought to warn her.

At the end of the day, Snape returned to the Latimers and filled them in on everything that was happening. Gillian was especially interested in Mrs. Hanson, and resolved to make that lady's acquaintance as soon as possible. A quick telephone call to Mrs. Hanson permitted preliminary introductions and arranged that the next day, Saturday, Gillian and Snape would take her into Nelson to start the process of decorating.

The first thing Snape had to do was steer Mrs. Hanson away from the flowery wallpaper. "You can put anything you want into your bedroom, he told her, "and I'm even willing to let you feminize the guest bedroom, but I want my space to be more… me."

Snape's first impulse was to pick things out piece by piece, but Mrs. Hanson soon disabused him of that technique. "It's all well and good that it looks nice next to the tan, but what's it going t' look like with the green?"

"I think," Gillian said after a while, "that the most important thing today is to see what the possibilities are. Are there any pieces that you already have that you're not going to refinish or reupholster? You could work around the colors in that. Why don't you take samples of different paint colors and some of the fabrics you like?"

"Are we allowed to do that?" Snape asked, astounded that he could walk out of a store with something he hadn't paid for.

"I'd also like t' look at the appliances," Mrs. Hanson said.

"Appliances?"

"Of course. You know, stove, refrigerator, things like that."

That brought an awkward pause. "Uh, did I forget to mention that there's no electricity or gas laid in?" Snape suddenly noticed that the ceiling was quite interesting.

"No electricity! No fridge? No telly? When were you planning t' tell me?"

"Sorry about that, I hope you're not going to change your mind over a little thing…"

"It's not that little," said Mrs. Hanson. "I'm too old t' be beating carpets."

Gillian fished around inside her handbag and pulled out something that looked like a cosmetics compact. "Open that," she said, handing it to Snape. It was a small, simple calculator.

"That's nice," said Snape in a tone that implied his doubt of Gillian's grasp of the problem.

"That belonged to my mother," said Gillian. "It's older than I am. What do you think makes it work?"

The calculator was far too thin to take a normal battery. In fact, there was no place to insert a battery. "You got me," Snape said.

"See those little black squares? They're solar collectors. I understand you can put larger versions of them on your roof instead of shingles, and they can provide electricity for the whole house."

"I bet they're expensive," Snape said. "I probably couldn't afford them."

"It's up to you," Gillian replied, then turned to Mrs. Hanson. "As far as the fridge goes, though, did you know he can make ice any time he wants to?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Hanson. "I'd forgot about that."

The ride back to Weetsmoor was dedicated to examining and commenting on color swatches and fabrics. Gillian swung by the cottage so Mrs. Hanson could see and measure it. As they approached, Snape and Gillian were surprised to see that someone was in the garden waiting for them. Someone who walked toward the fence as the truck drove up. It was Harry Potter.

"My goodness!" Mrs. Hanson exclaimed as she was helped from the truck by Snape. "I know you. You were at the burial last year, you and some of the other students."

"You have a good memory, ma'am," Harry replied. "I must admit I'm a bit surprised to see you here."

"Are you afraid I'll be telling everyone?" Mrs. Hanson giggled. "I know I like to chatter, but I kept mum about Russ and his mother for nigh on forty years. Besides, here it doesn't matter, now does it? Everyone already knows."

"You knew?"

"I used t' babysit for him. He could do the most wonderful things."

"Mrs. Hanson," Snape informed Harry gravely, "is taking up residence here – you will notice the addition to the cottage. Here it won't matter what she knows or who she tells it to. Was there a reason for your presence, or is this a social call."

"I found out yesterday that Sally-Ann was here a week ago. She's won't tell me what happened, so I thought I'd ask you."

"Wonderful," said Snape. "Luckily, I have just the person for you; someone who knows all about it. Why don't you and Gillian have a cuppa in the front room, while Mrs. Hanson and I go around the house measuring things? That way we'll kill two birds at the same time."

"Don't you mean with one stone?"

"If I'd meant one stone, I'd have said it. Your story is a bird, measuring is a bird, Gillian is one stone, and I'm the other. Do I have to explain every metaphor to you?"

"Okay, smart guy," retorted Harry. "How can we have a cuppa in the front room when there are no walls and all the furniture, including the stove, is out here?"

"That is the beauty of furniture, Potter. It can be moved. You have, in fact, your choice of front room or lawn. Wood stoves possess the virtue of not having to be hooked up to anything, but I was thinking more of doing it the old fashioned way." Snape held up his wand. "As for the measuring, the stairs and floors are in, so as long as Mrs. Hanson and I don't fall off, we're fine."

Gillian opted for the lawn, where she and Harry set two of the kitchen chairs and the low table from the front room and Harry heated the water for the tea. Meanwhile, Snape and Mrs. Hanson explored every part of the half-built cottage, from the cellar up.

The virtue of tea on the lawn was that Snape could not overhear Gillian and Harry's conversation, for the story of the encounter between Hugh and Sally-Ann took only a couple of minutes. Then Gillian went on to other things.

"You've hinted before that your student/teacher relationship with Russ was less than pleasant."

"Russ? When did you start calling him Russ?"

"Just this last week. He's been staying with us while the reconstruction's going on, and it felt wrong to stay formal, especially since we feel older because he looks so young, and he feels older because he is. So we're on a first name basis now. He prefers Russ."

"That's very interesting. I guess he prefers it because that's what his parents and Mrs. Hanson called him, but my mom called him Sev, and the staff at Hogwarts called him Severus." Harry thought for a moment. "I wonder which he prefers when he's separated from his body and in the pensieve."

Gillian smiled. "Hugh was telling him just the other day that the two have different personalities. I'd be willing to wager the little one prefers Severus. Although I will admit that even this one is sharper with you and Hagrid than with anyone else. He showed us a memory of one of his classes, and everything seemed perfectly normal – like a chemistry teacher in a lab class."

Now it was Harry's turn to grin. "Maybe I should show you a couple of mine. He had a nasty streak that could turn pretty ugly."

"Potter!" Snape called down from the upper floor, and Harry's first thought was that he'd been overheard. That worry was dispelled as Snape continued. "It just occurred to me. What are you doing here? Isn't today your birthday? Aren't you supposed to be doing something with the usual suspects?"

"That's not until four o'clock," Harry called back. "It'll be a bigger crew than usual. Anybody you want to say 'hello' to? I mean, seeing that the circle of the initiated is getting wider."

"Speaking of which," said Snape, rather loudly since he was helping Mrs. Hanson down the stairs, "Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore have entered that circle, too. Don't look at me like that! It was an accident!"

The two crossed the lawn, Snape getting chairs for himself and Mrs. Hanson to sit in and tea for them both. Harry waited until they were settled. "Since I doubt that Professor McGonagall would accidently come here, I presume you went to Hogwarts."

"I had to. I had some boxes in storage. I wanted them. It's a terrible thought that after you go people will be pawing through your personal things. It makes you want to throw everything away before the day comes."

"It doesn't make me want to," stated Mrs. Hanson firmly. "I'll have my things while I'm here, and after I'm gone, I won't care."

"But you'll be watching, or don't you believe in heaven?" Gillian asked.

"It doesn't matter, does it, dear? If there isn't one, then there'll be nothing left of me t' care, and if there is one, I'll have a good deal more important things t' do than fret about a few worldly possessions."

"A life without fretting about the little things?" said Snape. "I don't think I could cope with that."

"I recall hearing that all of your papers and things were in remarkably good order, almost as if you were expecting to die." Harry drained the last of his tea, not looking at Snape, though he knew Gillian was.

"Living for a year in the eye of a hurricane does wonders for focusing on priorities." Snape replied. "And I was. Shall we stop discussing this? I am sure Mrs. Hanson would rather engage in more cheerful conversation. I know I would."

The talk turned to the garden and the house, and Snape fixed sandwiches for lunch, letting Mrs. Hanson see how well magic kept things fresh, at least on a temporary basis, which is all one needs for food one keeps for only for a day or two. After that, Gillian took Mrs. Hanson home, leaving Harry and Snape together. Harry wanted to check out the construction on the cottage, and Snape let him, watching and answering occasional questions.

"I was watching, you know. I think I told you that," Harry said as he inspected the future study.

"Watching what?"

"You and Voldemort. In the shack. You kept asking him to let you go and bring me to him so that he could kill me."

"Ah, yes."

"What were you really going to do?"

"Find you and take you to him so that he could kill you."

"No," said Harry. "I mean really."

"So do I."

"I thought you were on the good side." Harry faced Snape, who was apparently fascinated by the grain of the wood of one of the posts.

"Tell me, Potter, how did you defeat the Dark Lord? How did you make him mortal."

"I walked up to him and let him kill me."

"There, you see. I wanted to find you, explain to you about being a horcrux, give you Dumbledore's instructions, then take you to the Dark Lord and let him kill you. And then I would have killed Nagini and him, and then I would have killed myself."

In the silence that followed, Harry whispered, "Why?"

"You're your mother's only child. It wasn't a thought I wanted to face for the rest of my life."

"But I wasn't really going to die."

"I didn't know that. You had to believe you were going to die for it to work. In order to convince you, I had to believe it, too. The coming back part was something Dumbledore didn't mention to me."

They stood there for a moment, Harry watching the set, rigid profile of the teenager in front of him, Snape gazing through the framework of the future kitchen to the trees beyond. Harry knew he was remembering Lily, and he desperately wanted to share whatever image of her Snape saw. "Look at me," Harry pleaded. Then he stopped, that last day suddenly very clear in his mind.

"What's wrong?" Snape asked, sensing the change and turning at last to face Harry.

"That's what you said to me. Those were your last words, 'Look at me.' My mother's eyes. You wanted to see…"

"I don't remember that," said Snape.

"Of course not. You'd already given me all your memories. This happened afterwards."

"I… my body… wasn't unconscious?" As Harry shook his head, Snape turned back to the view of the trees. The import of this was there, hovering between them, but Snape didn't want to examine it, not just yet. It was for Harry to take the next step.

"Does that mean that part of you was still there, part of you…?"

"You know, Potter, this would be an excellent opportunity for you to practice being seen and not heard!"

Snape crossed his arms, then bent his head and raised his right hand to rest his forehead on his fingers. _What's not there?_ he thought. _What part of me is missing? What died and was buried at the foot of Pendle Hill?_

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He felt truly sorry for Snape, which was such an unexpected emotion that he didn't really know how to deal with it. He rather suspected that Snape didn't know how to deal with his emotions either. He thought of the child's eyes, opening like windows to his mother, and Snape's comments about… "Tell me about the doors," Harry said. "The ones you said you couldn't close anymore."

"I'd rather not talk about it, certainly not…"

"To me. Right. Do you want to know my opinion?" Snape walked away towards the frame of the unfinished front room, Harry right behind him, still talking. "No. You don't. But you're going to get it anyway. I think you shouldn't think about this right now. I think it's too new. I think you've had a really rough six months, regaining consciousness, stuck in a bottle, fighting Voldemort, getting told by the Ministry you weren't even human, splitting in two at odd moments… I think you and I should get on those bicycles and ride someplace. Anyplace. You have plenty of time to think about this later."

Harry stopped then because Snape stopped. Snape was looking through the spaces between the posts at the bicycles propped against a tree. "We could go to the old house…" Snape began.

"No! Nothing connected with the past. I'm serious. I think you need a couple of hours of holiday time."

"But if I'm missing part…"

"Whatever it is you're missing, you've been surviving without it for six months and never even noticed it wasn't there. Another few hours isn't going to change anything. Where is there around here that we could go?"

Snape said nothing for a moment, then turned to face Harry, his own features sharp and sardonic. "How do you feel about cross country and the possibility of getting totally lost?"

It was not what Harry was expecting, but a sudden, adventurous urge swelled up in him, and he said, "Great! Where are we going?"

"Barnoldswick." Snape jumped over the stone sill of the front room onto the grass and strode to the bicycles, Harry on his heels. "It's larger and actually closer than Foulridge, but no roads go from here to there, so Foulridge, and Colne and Nelson, of course, are easier for the villagers to get to. We go northeast along the foot of Weets Hill and then we should find a road going into the town."

"Like this one?" Harry asked, nodding towards the dirt and gravel road in front of Snape's cottage."

"Probably smaller," said Snape.

"Let's go," Harry told him.

The first part of their journey was on relatively level ground, with the broad, flat-topped bulk of Weets Hill on the left. Sometimes Snape went first over the rocky moor land, and sometimes Harry, at first riding, but soon mostly walking with the bikes, giving wide berth the to the occasional sheep grazing on the stubbly grass. Within less than a mile they did indeed come across a lane that gradually descended along a wide ridge for about two miles to the houses on the edge of the town. Snape stopped there.

"We're not going into town," he told Harry. "We're cutting east to the Kelbrook Road."

"What's there?"

"Have you ever seen the Leeds-Liverpool Canal? No? You're about to. Barnoldswick is the summit, the high point on the canal. It's downstream from here to Foulridge, and the towpath should be in fairly decent shape. My grandmother – the muggle one – told me my father's people came from Yorkshire to work on the canal and stayed. The canal took my great-grandfather to Liverpool and out to sea. If he hadn't developed a love of the occult in places like New Guinea and the Caribbean, I might never have been born."

"I'd love to hear about it," said Harry.

"Maybe someday."

The canal was beautiful, calm and serene, with its grassy banks and trees growing near the water, and the ride from Barnoldswick to Foulridge was not much more than two and a half miles. Neither talked much, though Harry thought quite a bit about the contrast between this lovely place – which Snape clearly knew well – and the blighted town where Snape had grown up.

At Foulridge, Snape told Harry the story of the cow that fell into the canal and swam the entire length of the mile-long Foulridge tunnel, was hauled out at the other end, and revived by the locals with brandy at the pub.

"I find that hard to believe," said Harry.

"Her name was Buttercup," Snape answered, as if that were all the proof necessary. Then, for good measure, he added, "They took pictures."

"Of her in the canal?"

"Of her drinking the brandy. It was 1912. They didn't have snapshots."

By this time the two were on the way back up to Weetsmoor. Harry felt good, the combination of fresh air, exercise, and peaceful surroundings having refreshed him thoroughly. He hoped Snape felt the same.

Once in Weetsmoor, Snape did not continue on to his cottage, but turned aside. "Why here?" Harry asked.

"I'm staying with the Latimers until the construction is finished. I should be back in my own home by the end of the week."

"Then I guess I should probably leave the bicycle at the Latimers' house if they have room for it."

Gillian was working in a tiny patch of front garden when they rode up. "There you are," she called as they dismounted from the bikes. "I was wondering why you weren't at the cottage."

"You went back up there looking for me?"

"As long as I had the truck."

"I don't want to sound like I'm in a hurry or anything," said Harry, "but do you happen to know what time it is?"

Gillian glanced at her watch. "Four-fifteen," she told him.

"Drat!" Harry looked around as if searching for something. "Can I put this somewhere? I'm late to my own birthday party."

"Well then, I'm not even going to ask you in for tea."

Harry turned to Snape. "Look, I'd really like you to come to the party. I think it would do you good."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Gillian concurred.

"I doubt the rest of the guests would agree with you," rejoined Snape. "This could be the shortest birthday party of your life."

"I've already had the shortest birthday party of my life. In order to win, this one would have to be less than a minute."

"Too many people," said Snape. "Nobody's supposed to know I'm here. And let me guess… It's at the Weasleys'. Out of the question."

"Why? What have you got against the Weasleys?"

"Mr. Weasley and Percy both work for the Ministry of Magic."

"Percy won't be there. He and Penelope are in Greece. Bill and Charlie won't be there either because they're not really mates of mine and they're busy with other things. I know I said it was larger than usual, but that's just because usually it's me, Ron, and Hermione. This time Luna and Neville are coming, and Professor McGonagall said she might drop in with Hagrid, and then there's George…"

"I think it's an excellent idea," Gillian said. "You need more social contact than just a bunch of old men in a pub."

"Which is a lot more social contact than I've ever had in my life."

"That's not true," Harry pointed out. "You spent most of your time with the staff at Hogwarts, and I know you were friendly with Flitwick and Sprout. And I'm sure I saw you talking with old Professor Kettleburn, and Sinistra, and you were with them all in the staff room a lot."

"Let me think about it."

"Well, I have to go. I'll take this behind the house and disapparate from there. I expect you to follow me in a couple of minutes." With that, Harry wheeled the bike to the rear of the house, and a moment later Snape and Gillian heard the faint 'pop' of his departure.

"I need to talk to you," Snape said to Gillian after Harry had gone.

"That sounds ominous," said Gillian. "What about?"

"Potter – after you'd gone – Potter told me there was still a part of my personality left in my old body when… when I died. I wasn't unconscious. I was moving and speaking. Something was in there, and it died. I need to know what it was."

"How do you think I can help?"

"I need someone to talk to. Someone intelligent and emotionally unconnected with the events of my life. Someone who can listen to my analysis of a situation and point out the holes in it, and suggest new lines of investigation."

Gillian brushed soil from her jeans and took off her gardening gloves. "You need a psychiatrist."

"Wizard's don't have psychiatrists, and a muggle doctor would lock me in a mental hospital," said Snape ruefully.

"What happens inside your brain when you take one of those memories out?" Gillian challenged him.

"What has that got…? Or do you mean physiologically? I don't really know."

"Could you find out? In some kind of wizard research library or something?"

"It would have a bearing on the case, wouldn't it? Unfortunately wizards don't think in terms of physiology."

"Then you need to experiment."

"How? On you? The physical variations between muggle and wizard would render the tests void, and it's faulty procedure for a scientist to experiment on himself. It skews the results."

"Which may be why you need to go to that birthday party."

Snape and Gillian stared at each other. "I need to be more careful," said Snape. "You're a craftier lady than I thought." He would have said more except there was another faint 'pop' from the rear yard and a voice calling, "Severus! Where are ye, lad?" Snape and Gillian raced around the house to the back.

Gillian was first, but stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth slightly open in shock, for there in front of her, regally tall and slim, was the quintessential witch – pointed hat, billowing dark robes, wand in hand, her face old, yet sharp and intelligent. If she had turned Gillian into a frog at that moment, Gillian would not have been surprised. Luckily, she did not.

"Oh," said the witch, "excuse me for popping in like this without any warning. I take it you are Mrs. Latimer, the policeman's wife. I am Professor McGonagall, and I am… There ye are, Severus. Harry said ye 'd be following him right in, and when ye didn't come right away, we got a wee bit worried."

"We?" said Snape skeptically. "I presume that's a restrictive plural. As in you and Potter. I doubt the others shared your anxiety."

"On the contrary. Harry's had to hogtie George. If ye don't come back with me, it will hard to restrain him. Can you imagine George loose in a place like this?"

"It sounds to me," Gillian said with a little smirk, "like you have no choice."

"It sounds like I don't. You go, Minerva. I'll follow. Gillian, you'd best stand back a bit. There's a percussive effect from apparating that can be unpleasant."

It was fascinating to watch, if a bit quick. Professor McGonagall seemed to twist slightly in place, and then she vanished, the air around her resonating with the pop that Gillian would now recognize any time she heard it. Then, "I promise not to be too late," Snape said as he, too, twirled and disappeared.

Gillian went back to her gardening.

Snape materialized on a country lane not too different from the one that went past his house, but there the similarity stopped, for in front of him was a crazy patchwork of a house that rose several stories and looked as if it might topple in a high wind. McGonagall was already striding towards it, or rather towards its garden where umbrellaed tables were loaded with food. She turned at the sound of his arrival and beckoned. "Come on, lad; they're waiting for ye."

The faces that greeted the two were a study in contrasts. Harry and Ginny smiled, Hagrid beamed, and Luna waggled her fingers in welcome. Arthur Weasley was bland and polite. Molly, Ron, Hermione, and Neville looked uncomfortable and wary. George, on the other hand, rushed up in excitement. "Come on, Professor," he cried as he seized Snape's arm and hauled him towards the house, "you've got to look at this firecracker I'm having trouble with. It's supposed to spray snails all over the place, but it keeps crushing the shells."

As they passed through the ground floor of the Weasley home, Snape had an impression of a relatively small space crowded with a wide variety of items, and then he was climbing a narrow staircase to a room that looked like the research warehouse for Zonkos. What seemed like hundreds of different, individually wrapped candies littered the tops of chests and dressers. Shrunken heads, hands, and internal organs (fake, of course), and one complete skeleton hung from the ceiling. Wands, bouquets of flowers, strange insects…

"What does this do?" Snape asked, picking up a small vial of caramel colored liquid.

"Makes you go all crossed-eyed for about six hours."

"Did you know you could enchant a mirror to produce the same effect on anyone who admired himself for too long?"

"Wicked. Do you think you could enchant…"

"A small, hand-held one…"

"Like the kind that ladies…"

"Carry in their purses? I don't see why not."

There was a sudden sound, like a creak on the stairs. Snape whirled at the noise, but George laughed. "Probably Ron getting something from his room upstairs. Wait a few minutes and you'll hear him come back down. Come look at this."

George handed Snape a small firecracker, about an inch and a half long. "Flash powder?" Snape said, and when George nodded, he asked, "What spell conjures the snails?"

"Just a Helix," said George. "I get about a dozen, but the shells…

"A Pomatia would be better, but if you're pulling out wild ones…"

"They're protected. I actually checked."

"Good for you. Not many wizards would." Snape thought for a moment. "Have you tried squibs?"

"You're joking now, aren't you, Professor!"

Snape chuckled. "Not Squibs – squibs. They can be made very small and have less destructive power. Actors in movies even used to wear them on their clothing to simulate gunshot wounds. You don't get the same bang as a firecracker, but you can coat the outside wrapper with, for example, confetti…"

"Tiny bladders of blood or glue…"

"You can enchant them so that when the explosion releases them they expand."

"You hardly need snails at all, do you, Professor?"

"Not really. As far as creativity goes…"

"The sky's the limit." George looked around the room. "I guess I'd better get you back to the party or Harry's going to be upset. After all, it is his birthday. Maybe some other day you could come and look around more."

"I think I would enjoy that," said Snape.

There was no one in the house as they made their way downstairs, but once out in the garden, Snape noticed a subtle change in the mood. Ginny, for some reason, looked like a cat with a bowl of cream, while Mrs. Weasley seemed to have been crying. When the two appeared, Mrs. Weasley hurried over to George and hugged him. For one horrifying second Snape thought she might hug him, too, but instead she hooked her arm around his elbow and led him toward the refreshment table.

"Shame on George for kidnapping you like that before you even had a chance to get something to eat or drink," she scolded. "A young man needs sustenance. We haven't brought out the cake yet, but here's chicken, and salad, and rolls with butter…"

Snape soon found himself holding a plate loaded with food in a quantity that he was certain he would not be able to eat, standing next to Hagrid, who was determined to see that he ate it all. "Mrs. Weasley seems to have changed her mind about me," Snape said, a note of puzzlement in his voice.

"That may be 'cause she were sneaking about with Ginny," said Hagrid, who refused to elaborate further.

Snape didn't press him for long, for a sudden thought entered his head. Leaving Hagrid, he moved toward Ron and Hermione. "Granger," he said without preamble, "how much do you know about pensieves?"

"Not very much," she replied coolly.

"How much do you think you could find out in, say two days?"

"I thought," said Hermione huffily, "that maybe I was already too much of an insufferable know-it-all."

Snape's eyes narrowed. On the seventeen-year-old face, confronting older teenagers, the expression did not have the same intimidating effect that it had had on the thirty-year-face confronting students of eleven. Ron put his arm around Hermione's shoulders in solidarity, his own face exhibiting a scowl of biblical proportions, while even Neville edged over in a show of support.

After a glance at the two boys, Snape focused on Hermione. "What's this all about? I thought we got past this months ago. Or you an evil clone substituting for the girl that gave me a birthday present in January?"

"You're supposed to be dead," Hermione informed him. "You committed suicide."

"And why, pray tell, do you think I did that?"

"To escape the Ministry, obviously, but you might have told your friends."

Snape's eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead, and the things he'd been planning to say evaporated. "We had to be sure it would work, so it had to be a secret."

"We? Who exactly is we?"

"Potter and Robards. And don't roll your eyes at me like that! They were part of the setup. They helped me stage it."

"Who else knows?" Hermione demanded.

"Hagrid knew from the beginning, but you can't be jealous of Hagrid…"

"I'm not jealous! It's just… Don't you know how we felt when we got the news!"

"So? Did you see Hagrid blubbering all over the place about it?"

"What's Hagrid got to do with it!"

"Hagrid's been taking care of me since I was twelve. He still has fits if I don't eat right. And he has about as much control over his emotions as a two-year-old. If he'd thought I was really dead… How did he react the first time?"

Hermione thought for a moment. "He was a lot more upset last year at your funeral. Who else?"

"Ginny, but Harry can't keep anything from…"

"GINNY KNEW ALL THE TIME!" Ron roared. "Harry told Ginny, but he didn't tell us!"

"Oh, put a lid on it!" Snape snapped at him. "McGonagall and Dumbledore didn't know until early yesterday morning either, and I'm a lot closer to them than I'm ever going to be to you! Flitwick and Sprout still don't know, and even though Robards knows I'm alive, he doesn't know exactly where I am. And for your information, there's a whole bunch of muggles who know, too. So there!"

"Are we having a wee tiff here?" McGonagall asked, having heard her name mentioned and thus acquiring the right to enter the conversation. The four combatants looked around to find the other nine watching them (this included Dumbledore, who was in a small open locket pinned to McGonagall's robes).

"It's okay," Snape told her, "we're reaching a _modus vivendi_." His brain was doing swift, if simple, calculations. "Is there anyone else invited to this soirée? Because unless my mathematical abilities have utterly deserted me, there are thirteen of us. I suggest we not sit down around a table."

"You sound just like Trelawney," Hermione scoffed. "She pulled that 'thirteen at a table' stunt back in our third year, but Ron and Harry got up first, and they're both still alive."

"Oh, yeah, Miss Smartypants?" Snape rounded on her. "I remember that dinner, too. I also remember that one of my Potions students went around half the year with a quivering lump in his pocket that I kept expecting to fall into a cauldron. You have no idea, Weasley, how nervous that damn rat made me. One rat hair in a wart-shrinking solution and…"

"Wormtail!" Harry shouted. "Wormtail was at that dinner, too! We were already thirteen when Trelawney joined us and…"

"I got up from the table to welcome Sibyl and ask her to join us," finished portrait Dumbledore. "My, my. And here all this time I thought I was being charitable. I wonder what else she said that I should have paid attention to."

Hermione had gone quite pale. A breach had been made in her wall of solid certainty, and it was a tossup if she looked more angry, or more likely to faint. "Professor," she said quietly, "I'd be happy to research pensieves for you."

"Pensieves?" said the portrait. "Severus, what are you asking that girl about pensieves for? Why aren't you asking me?"

"All right, sir," Snape replied smoothly, "here's my question. When someone removes a memory from his brain to relocate it into a pensieve, what physiological effect does it have on the cerebral cortex, the amygdalae, and the hippocampus?"

There was momentary silence, then Dumbledore said, "Hermione, I believe this is a topic that is right up your alley."

The storm now over, and everybody amicable once more, the others turned to less academic pursuits and allowed Snape and Hermione to discuss brains. Ron stayed with Hermione, not because he either understood the problem or wanted to, but on general principle. Dumbledore asked to be pinned to Ron's sweater so that he could participate as well.

"So what you want me to do is research the cerebral cortex?" said Hermione. "And what were the other two?"

"Not necessarily," Snape admitted. "I just used those three because I knew he," he nodded toward the portrait, "wouldn't understand what I was talking about. I'm not really sure what part of the brain is involved."

"Thank you, Severus. Your faith in me is most encouraging."

"You have your weaknesses, sir."

"And it does me good to have them pointed out to me from time to time." The portrait settled back, as if into an unseen chair, to listen and observe.

"Can't you do this yourself?" Hermione asked Snape. "You know how to use libraries just as well as I do."

"Yes, but though muggle libraries would have information on brains, they'd have nothing on pensieves. Wizard libraries would have pensieve information, but I can't risk spending time where wizards might see and recognize me. You, on the other hand, are not only familiar with both and have access to both, but you can also integrate the information you find."

"I doubt mere library research is going to give you all the answers," Hermione sighed. "Between wizard ignorance and muggle ignorance, there are bound to be gaps in the available knowledge."

"Granger! You shock me! Have you finally realized one cannot learn everything from books?"

"Oh, shut up," Hermione said, but she was smiling as she said it. Then, after a short pause, "This is about you, isn't it? I assume you know I was there."

"Do I?" said Snape. "Let me see… No, somehow I don't have that one."

"I conjured the original flask to hold the memories. Harry would have let them spill all over the floor before thinking of something."

"Sounds like Potter. Though now that you mention it, he did tell me that. I just don't have the memory. Maybe the first step, then, is to note exactly what took place." Snape glanced around, then removed from his jacket pocket a small notebook and a ballpoint pen and handed them to Hermione. "More convenient than a quill," he said.

The first hurdle to overcome after that was Ron, who had to experiment with the pen on the notebook by drawing a series of spirals, and who would not relinquish the pen until Snape let him take it apart to see where the ink was stored.

Hermione started talking then, as if talking to herself, taking notes as she spoke.

"The bubble with Nagini in it left, and you fell to the ground. You were trying to stop the bleeding with your hands, but it was already pretty clear you were dying. You were kicking a little, and twisting…"

"Can we switch out of second person, please? Gripping as this is, I would still rather review it on a more clinical level."

"Oh, sorry. Well, Harry came out into the room and knelt next to y… him… the Professor… I'm sorry, but it was you, and that's how I'm going to have to finish it. It won't take long. Anyway, it was like you recognized him, and you said, 'Take it,' and all the memories started pouring out like the vapor from dry ice."

"No wand? And what do you mean by pouring out?"

"Completely wandless. It was like something inside your head opened and freed something that was trying to escape. It just came – pour is the only word I can think of – out of your mouth, nostrils, eyes, ears, the sides of your head…"

"Like something opened inside," said Dumbledore. "That is interesting."

"I conjured a flask to hold it all. You said, 'Look at me,' and while Harry was looking at you, you died." Hermione stopped. "I see the problem now," she said. "We didn't get it all, did we?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," said Snape. "The personality isn't integrating perfectly with the physical component, and I've been having episodes where there's a certain lack of cohesion between the two, and…"

"You are splitting in half, then?" Dumbledore smiled. "Maybe you should be talking to me after all."

"What do you know about it!" Snape snapped at him.

Dumbledore did not seem upset, quite the opposite. "Compartmentalization and the Occlumentic Mind," he said. "I wrote a monograph with that title for the British Healers' Monthly Journal, you know. You were something of a case study, though I never mentioned your name in any of my papers. I took a good deal of criticism for maintaining the possibility of congenital occlumency, especially after I refused to reveal who the subject of my study was. I did think at the time that a young man in school deserved his privacy."

"And I thank you for that, sir," said Snape. What did you mean by compartmentalization?"

"The way you split yourself into so many different pieces and stored the different pieces in separate parts of your brain."

"That was to keep the Dark Lord from seeing things I didn't want him to see."

"I will admit that the fact that it could be a voluntary action was very useful on occasion, but my dear boy, you did it constantly. One of the hardest tasks I ever set for myself was to teach you how to leave some of it out in the open."

"Is that what he means by the doors?" Harry had come over from a conversation with Arthur Weasley and now added his own observations. "He's said a couple of times that the doors aren't there anymore. He seems to be worried about becoming over-emotional. That and the splitting in two, of course."

"Do you mean he is really splitting in two?" Dumbledore asked. "That is fascinating. I thought we were joking. How does it happen?"

"I'm over here," said Snape. "Hullo! You don't have to talk about me in the third person."

"Excellent," Dumbledore told him. "So you describe it to me."

"I've never watched it happen. I was always inside."

"Then kindly do not interrupt Harry when he is giving me a scientific observation."

"This is because of the amygdalae and the hippocampus, isn't it?" said Snape. "You're just being nasty."

"He," said Harry pointedly, "divides in two. The body becomes limp and unconscious, and the personality leaves it exactly like a pensieve memory. And I can put him back into the body exactly like a pensieve memory, after which the two are integrated again."

"Which component has the memories?" Dumbledore asked. "The body, or the personality?"

Harry looked over at Snape. "I don't know," he said. "Our main concern has always been putting the two back together. By the way," he added, "there's a muggle who can do it, too. Put him back, I mean. The local constable."

"I find that hard to believe," said Dumbledore.

"With a wand," Harry continued. "Twice."

"He must be a muggle-born," said Hermione. "It's the logical explanation."

"I don't think so," Snape said. "He never did magic as a child – at least he never alerted the Ministry or Hogwarts. Now, can we get back to the matter at hand?"

"Which is?" Dumbledore asked.

"I want to know how much and what part of me was still inside my original body when I died. I want to know what's missing. The idea that there's something not there is… well, it's disturbing."

"I believe," said Dumbledore calmly, "that you should be able to look inside yourself and tell what is missing. You have already said that the doors are gone."

"That's silly, sir," Snape countered. "If you walk through a forest and hear no birds, how do you know if it's your hearing that's bad or if there are no birds to hear? In the case of the birds, you might have a companion who can hear them when you can't. I don't know of anyone but me who's familiar with my brain."

"Let me see," said the portrait. "Your mother is dead, and Lily was never a legilimens. Nor was Hagrid. The person who actually examined your mind most carefully was Lord Voldemort, who is also dead. I cannot recall anyone else that you ever allowed yourself to get that close to, mentally speaking, of course, so I suppose that leaves me. I did have occasion, in eighty-four and eighty-five when we were certain Voldemort was getting stronger and we were sure he was coming back, to examine your mind on several occasions." Dumbledore looked around at the others. "Severus was preparing himself for the encounter. It was rather a grueling ordeal."

"Excuse me, sir," Snape pointed out, "that may well have been true at one time – your knowledge, I mean – but right now you are a portrait. You're not all there either."

Ron began to chuckle, but was stopped by a glare from Hermione. To Snape, Hermione said, "You do seem different. From the way you were before, I mean."

"Different in what way?"

"More human, somehow. Like a normal person." She braced herself as if in anticipation of an attack, verbal or physical. It didn't come.

"The peeler said the same thing," was all that Snape responded.

"What's a peeler?" Ron asked.

"Oh, sorry," Snape said. "Slang for a policeman. The London police force was started by Sir Robert Peel. They were called peelers from his last name and bobbies from his first. And coppers from the coppers buttons they wore, buttons being new and fashionable at the time."

"How do you know all this stuff?" Ron demanded, laughing.

"I channel the _Encyclopedia Britannica_," Snape replied. "Ask Miss Granger. She knows all about it."

"He reads, Ron," said Hermione, but she, too, was laughing now.

"So what did Hugh tell you?" Ginny asked.

Harry rounded on her. "What do you mean 'Hugh!' Since when are you on a first name basis?"

"Gillian said I could call them by their first names. If you feel threatened by that, I'll say Constable Latimer. It doesn't make any difference to me."

Harry pouted.

"Constable Latimer," Snape said cautiously, "remarked that my outward personality when I was in the body was… nicer than when I was a disembodied personality in the pensieve. Except when I'm talking to Harry and Hagrid. Then I have the same… edginess."

"I guess that's why I never noticed any difference," Harry remarked to no one in particular.

"Let me see if I have this straight." Hermione began ticking points off on her fingers. "In the body, you have both physical freedom and memories. But you can't lock your feelings and memories away the way you used to. For some reason this softens your personality. In the pensieve, you have neither physical freedom nor memories. You also said last spring before you got the body that you didn't have any 'doors,' but since you also don't have the memories, you don't need the doors. So with all those feelings cut off, you're more like the old Professor we know and love."

"The ice," Snape warned, "is getting very thin."

"Except," continued Hermione, undaunted, "that Harry and Hagrid somehow touch off something, push your buttons, and you respond to them in a more reflexed way. Your big question right now, though, is about whatever was left inside your first body and presumably died with it – whether or not that was or was not an essential part of you, something that will affect you now because you don't have it."

"I have another point to add," said Dumbledore. "He has no portrait at Hogwarts. When he… sorry Severus, when you died, a portrait should have appeared in the headmaster's office. It did not. There's no portrait there. Whatever may or may not have died with you was insufficient to produce one."

"That could be important," said Hermione. "I think I understand the problem. Now I have to hit the books. After that… well, that depends on what, if anything, I find."

By this time, everyone at the party was quietly listening. Snape found this a bit disconcerting, especially Neville's presence. A dream about Neville had, after all, triggered one of his splits. Conversation turned to other things, and about fifteen minutes later, Snape made his excuses and left. He hadn't been truly comfortable at the party, but the realization that the others were ready and willing to help him made him feel… not exactly better, but at least less isolated.

What Snape walked in on when he apparated back to the Latimers' house and pushed open the door (for most people in the village didn't lock their doors except at night while they slept) was Hugh and Gillian sitting down to dinner with a guest, the Reverend Davidson.

"Oh," said Gillian. "We didn't expect you for a while. Is the party over?" There was the tiniest touch of worry in her voice.

"I'm fine," Snape assured her. "It was fine; we got along well, talked a lot. I guess I'm just tired from the whole week. I'm renovating the cottage," he explained to the curate. "Hugh and Gillian are putting me up for the duration."

"Those things can take a while," Davidson said sympathetically. "How long do you expect to be exiled?"

"It's not that bad. It should be finished, or at least habitable, by the end of the week. There's a lot of work, though."

"Well right now," said Hugh, "you happen to be just in time for dinner, and there's plenty of food. Sit down. You too, Jeff… Gillian, and I'll get Russ a plate." He went into the kitchen as the others took their places around the table.

"Russ?" Davidson remarked. "Forgive me, I thought I was told Richard."

"Richard's my first name, but I've always gone by my middle name."

"So have I. I'm really William Geoffrey, but variations on William are all common, so I've always been Jeff."

Hugh returned with plate, glass, and utensils, and Snape was about to pick up his fork when he realized no one else was. He waited as Davidson bowed his head and said, "Lord, bless these thy gifts to our use, and us to thy service, in the name of Christ."

The Latimers responded, "Amen," and then Hugh added, "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful." This time Snape joined the 'amen,' and filed in the back of his mind the social reality that when the bible thumper came to dinner, it was considered polite to pretend that one always said grace at meals.

"I hope you won't think I'm being rude or anything," Davidson said to Snape as he cut into his pork chop, "but I am going to have to eat and run. Evening service is at seven, and then I'll be going to Cora's – Mrs. Wainwright's – for the night. I really am pleased at how well she's doing since that fall last week. Very lucky we were, there."

"I agree," Snape said. "Does Mrs. Wainwright attend both services? She was at the Sunday morning one when she fell."

"No, she only comes on Sundays. My most regular parishioners on Saturday are Helen Ridley, Barbara Roach, the Baileys, and Emily Dyson. That's mostly because their Sunday mornings are busy, what with the shops and the hotel."

"You might want to meet Mrs. Dyson," Hugh told Snape. "She's Bridget Bailey's mother, and she's nearly Mrs. Wainwright's age. The Dysons used to live out where the Dodsons are now, near you. When Chris Dyson died, Bridget – she'd married and was living in Colne – came back here with her husband and restored the old inn. Between them, I think Mrs. Dyson and Mrs. Wainwright know just about everything there is to know about just about everyone in the village."

"Russ is interested in the history of Weetsmoor," Gillian explained to Davidson.

"It sounds like I should get to know Mrs. Dyson," Snape said.

After the curate had left for the church, Snape recounted to the Latimers what had happened at Harry's birthday party. "With Hermione doing the research," he finished, "we may get results fairly quickly. She's a fast study, with a memory like an elephant. Irritating little minx in class, but very useful when you need data fast."

"I'm intrigued by the thought that the calmer, more adjusted personality is the one with all the memories, and the prickly, antisocial one is cut from them. Very often, it's the other way around. It's the memories, repressed or acknowledged, that cause the problems." Gillian contemplated Snape for a moment. "Just as an intellectual exercise, what were some of your bad memories from the past? No details, please. Just generalities."

Snape thought for a while, his brow creased in concentration. "That's odd," he said after a couple of minutes, "but I can't recall any. I know there were things about m' dad, and Lily…" He paled slightly as realization struck. "Oh, drat! Those were the memories I took out and put into the flask! I've been wandering around for an entire month with some of my most painful memories locked away in a bottle!"

He got up and began pacing the room. "When I first got here, there was so much to do that I didn't think about the past much. Then in June I started getting really depressed, and whenever a memory surfaced that was particularly upsetting, I took it out and stored it away where it couldn't bother me. That flask is full of things I don't want to look at. Could that be why I'm splitting? Because so much of my mind is split already?"

"Mightn't it also," Hugh suggested, "be the reason why you, as you are now, are more 'mellow' than the other one. You aren't burdened with the memories."

"He doesn't have any memories," Snape pointed out, then paused, watching his own hands as the fingers pulled at each other nervously. "I mean, I don't have any memories when I'm in that state," he corrected himself.

"That's not true," said Hugh. "You remember things."

"I know things; I don't remember them. I don't mentally 'see' or 'hear' them. I don't re-experience the emotions. It isn't the same thing."

"Then theoretically, wouldn't the other 'you' be even more relaxed?" Gillian asked. "If fewer memories makes you a mellower person, wouldn't no memories…"

"I don't know," Snape admitted. "Maybe it has something to do with the part that died. At least Granger promised to study up on it. Maybe eventually I'll get some answers."

"My opinion, for what it's worth," said Gillian, "is that you should put the memories back in your head and learn to deal with them. That way you'd at least be whole."

"We don't know that yet," Snape reminded her. "I don't think I'm ready. Maybe with more data."

It was agreed that the subject had, for the moment, been exhausted, and the three of them went upstairs and to bed. Snape lay awake for a while, but eventually drifted off to sleep, and when he awoke the next morning, it was without having dreamed.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Sunday, August 1, 1999_

All three were up early the next morning, Hugh in uniform since he was on duty that day. "He doesn't go to church while on duty," Gillian told Snape, "since it's bad form to have the mobile phone ring during services. Would you like to come to church with me?"

Snape agreed. Among the things he'd brought back from Hogwarts was a suit that had belonged to his father, seldom worn and decently fitting since Tobias Snape had been short and wiry, too. Gillian pressed it, Hugh provided a necktie and instructions on how to tie it, and when they were finished, Snape felt he looked fairly presentable.

"The hair is off," he said, regarding himself in the Latimers' mirror. "Nobody has hair this long anymore."

"Would you like a trim?" Gillian asked.

"All right, but not too much. Let me get used to it gradually."

Service was at nine-thirty. At a quarter past the hour, Snape and Gillian left the house, Snape carrying Hugh's prayer book with the pages marked so he could follow the service easily. The short walk took only a couple of minutes, but as soon as they turned the corner at Roach's store, they could see that a group of people was standing in the church yard among the gravestones, looking up at the roof. Snape and Gillian joined them.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Helen Ridley said, coming to stand by Snape.

Hopping around on the chapel roof were three tiny jobberknolls, their speckled blue feathers iridescent in the morning sun. They weren't fully fledged yet, so they couldn't fly, but they had left the security of their belfry nest to explore their brave new world.

"Do they sing?" an elderly woman with iron-gray hair asked Snape, picking him out immediately as the one who would know. "I'm Emily Dyson, by the way. My husband and I used to give Constantina a lift in the car when she visited your mother. I remember seeing you as a baby. Must say you haven't grown much for someone your age."

"It's in the blood," Snape told her. "Those of us who don't run into unfortunate accidents tend to live a long time. My name is Russ."

"I remember," said Mrs. Dyson. "Constantina talked about you all the time." She nodded up at the chapel roof. "Do they sing?"

"No," said Snape. "They never make a sound their whole lives long. Then, at the moment they die, they give up everything they ever heard in one, final death offering."

"A little like you," Gillian whispered quietly.

The mother jobberknoll arrived with food, and her fledgings crowded around, silent beaks gaping wide to be fed. Reverend Davidson drove up at just that moment with Mrs. Wainwright in the car beside him, to open the chapel doors and admit his congregation to Sunday morning worship. As the little group filed in, several people greeted Snape and Gillian, but this time there was no curious staring. Just a group of villagers going to church with their neighbors.

"I need to talk to Gordon Roach after church," Snape said to Gillian as they settled into a pew. "I think I'll take a chance on those solar panels. If I'm lucky, they'll have reruns of Dr. Who on the telly." He had to be quiet after that, though, because the service started.

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Here ends the second story.


	11. Chapter 11 – Good Luck for a Porlock 1

**STORY NUMBER THREE: ****Good Luck for a Porlock – Part 1**

_Sunday, August 1, 1999_

Snape went to church with Gillian the day after Harry Potter's birthday party. He was feeling hopeful, since Hermione Granger had agreed to do some research for him on the physiological effect of extracting pensieve memories, and so he was able to turn his attention more to the community around him than he might otherwise have done. As soon as the service was over, he sought out Mrs. Wainwright and Mrs. Dyson, the oldest ladies in the village, who by great good fortune happened to be together.

"Mrs. Wainwright," said Snape as he approached her. "It's good to see you up and about. It seems your stay in hospital hasn't done you any harm. How are Vinny and the chickens?" Vinny was Vinegar Tom, Mrs. Wainwright's border collie.

"They missed me," cackled Mrs. Wainwright. "They'd have missed me a lot longer without you. You know," she confided in Mrs. Dyson, "I really did break the bone. But he's as good as Constantina ever was, and had those doctors all in a dither about what was happening to their X-rays. You have Bridget send to Russ here if anything happens to you."

"That could be a problem," Mrs. Dyson admitted. "She lived too long in Colne. Forgot the old ways. And that husband of hers is a scoffer."

"Could you make sure they called me?" Mrs. Wainwright offered. "I could get Oscar, and Oscar could get Russ. By the time the National Health got to you, he'd have had a chance to get something useful done. That's what happened with me. Even better, the parson thinks he's First Response. You tell Bridget that, and he'll confirm it."

"First Response," said Mrs. Dyson. "That's good. I'll let Bridget know," for the First Response people were the citizenry trained in emergency first aid while waiting for an ambulance and paramedics from the National Health Service. "If she thinks that, she'll send for him first anyway."

"I certainly hope," Snape broke in, "that this emergency planning won't be necessary. I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind my dropping in during the week to visit. I would really like to chat about my grandmother and your experiences with her. I'm a bit overwhelmed with refurbishing the cottage – though I plan to have you over when its finished – so right now I'm mostly free in the late afternoon and early evening. I can't guarantee which day, though."

"You drop by any time, dear," said Mrs. Dyson. "I don't have enough to fill my days as it is. Company would be welcome."

After the ladies, the next stop was the shop of Gordon Roach, who sold hardware, dry goods, and was the one in the village through whom construction material could be ordered. Roach was very pleased to see Snape, from whom he'd already made quite a bit of money on the materials for the cottage.

"Gillian Latimer mentioned solar collectors," Snape told Roach. "How many would I need to provide electricity for my house?"

In order to answer the question, Roach pulled out catalogs and building manuals. He allowed for the recommended size of the solar array for a normal house, added the electric connectors and wiring, and concluded with storage batteries.

Snape looked at the final sum. "I don't have that much money," he said. "There's no way I could afford that."

That was when they started tinkering with the figures, because Roach's sources were allowing for things like an electric range, lighting, and heat, all of which drew a large amount of electricity. "Really," Snape explained, "all I'm interested in is a refrigerator, a television, and a computer. The rest we can do the old fashioned way."

What Gordon Roach finally came up with – and he promised to make the phone calls to confirm it with the manufacturers and the installers (for this could not be done by the locals) – was the minimum in rooftop solar collectors to provide Snape and Mrs. Hanson with a minimum of their requirements. The television and the computer had top priority. The refrigerator was a luxury.

"That's all right," Snape said when he saw the estimated final figures for purchase and installation. "It'll wipe out the reward money from the Ministry, but I'll still have the bank accounts with Gringotts and Barclays. Nothing to live on, but something in an emergency."

"What's Gringotts?" Roach asked, so Snape explained it to him.

Snape then spent the afternoon at his little work shed behind the cottage where the bundimun solution was now ripe for bottling. He took a small flask of it to the Latimers' when he went back to their house for dinner.

"Is it good?" Gillian asked, looking at the tiny bottle in her hand.

"Do you have anything _really_ dirty?" Snape replied.

"As a matter of fact," said Gillian, after a moment's thought, "I do. It isn't really mine, but it's something that's bothered me ever since I got here. The oldest gravestones in the church yard are badly stained. We've tried to clean them – everybody's tried to clean them – no success. They're not white, they're not meant to be white. They're native west Pennine stone, kind of a pale milky orange color. We scraped off the moss and lichens, but the stains from that and plain weather won't come off."

"Are you sure you want it to?" Snape asked. "Doesn't it give the place that 'ancient church yard' feel?"

"The old stone itself does that on its own because the newer gravestones are granite and marble. Besides, the people here would rather have it look well tended. Those old names are still here, and we're talking about family plots."

"All right," said Snape. "You'll need a bucket of water, a sponge, and you may want to wear rubber gloves, though I've never heard of it harming anyone."

They formed a little procession with Gillian and the bottle of bundimun potion in front, a sponge in her other hand, Snape second with the bucket of water, and Hugh, still in uniform, bringing up the rear. When Gillian angled right as she crossed the main street and entered the church yard, a handful of people came to watch, including both the Ridleys and the Roaches from their shops.

Gillian bypassed the oldest stone, dedicated to the mortal remains of Jeremiah Hackett in 1667, and stopped by that of Makepeace Ridley, infant son of Hezekiah, who died two years later. Looking over at the wall, she called to Bill Ridley, "Is it all right if I do this one?"

Ridley decided to move closer. "It depends on what you're doing," he said.

"Cleaning it."

"I'd like to see that," said Ridley. "After all the poultices I've tried, it'd be nice if something worked."

Unstoppering the bottle, Gillian asked Snape, "How much?" to which he replied, "About three drops." Gillian carefully released the drops into the water, pulled on the rubber gloves, dipped the sponge into the water, which had turned green, and experimented first on the back of the stone.

The effect was nothing short of miraculous. Not only were centuries of discoloration removed at a single swipe of the sponge, but the stone appeared almost new, only the places where it had been scratched or chipped were left as a testament to its age. As Ridley watched, Gillian finished the back of the gravestone, cleaned the narrow sides, then set to work on the front. The crude lettering became clearer, a design in the curved top was revealed to be a skull with angel's wings. The soft color of the cleaned stone was a gentle contrast to its previous hard, patchy gray.

For the next half hour, Gillian cleaned gravestones, only doing those whose family members were present to give permission. Then she stopped. "That's all for today," she announced. "I'm tired. How do I dispose of this?" The once green liquid in her bucket was now gray itself.

"Good question," said Snape. "It's all natural substances, none of which are toxic. It might even make good fertilizer. I wouldn't recommend it for that without testing, though."

"Shall we test it on our poor excuse for a garden?" Hugh asked. "There's not much it can kill, and if it makes something grow, that would be great."

The spectators began to disperse to their homes as the little procession reformed for the short walk back to the Latimers' house. Ridley, however, was not yet finished.

"Are you planning to market that?" he asked Snape.

"I have to," Snape confessed. "The expenses of the remodeling are wiping out my savings, and I'll need an income to survive. I can't do anything on a big scale, just local customers. If 'my' people discover that 'your' people are buying in quantity, I could be in a lot of trouble."

"Behind the counter goods, eh? People are going to notice the change in the church yard. Word's going to get around pretty quick."

"They'll need instructions. You shouldn't use it for ordinary day-to-day cleaning, just for the really tough jobs, like this one."

"There's plenty to use it on around here," Ridley chuckled. "This is an old village. Could you sell it already diluted, on a job by job basis? That would reduce the possibility of its being misused."

"There's a thought," Gillian interjected. "You'd have more control over who had access to it, you could make sure it was being used properly, and you wouldn't have to charge so much per sale because you'd have more frequent sales."

"I'd need more and bigger bottles," Snape sighed. "That's an added expense."

"Make them return the bottles," said Gillian. "Better for the environment that way."

"I know," Snape laughed. "I'll only buy one bottle. That way I'll have real control. 'I'm sorry Mrs. Wainwright, but I can't sell you any potion to clean your chicken coops until Ernie Hackett's finished with his pig sties.' Then she'll go over and make sure he does what he's supposed to."

The others agreed that that was a little bit too much control, but that it did make sense to limit the quantity floating around the village at any given time.

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_Monday, August 2, 1999_

The next morning, Snape's bottle problem was solved when he was visited at the construction site by a small deputation of women led by Helen Ridley and Barbara Roach. Each woman was carrying a small jar, rather like a pickle or mayonnaise jar.

"What we need," Mrs. Ridley explained, "is starting solution that we can dump into a bucket of water. We've decided to surprise Reverend Davidson and clean the chapel. How does your mixture work on wood?"

"It should be great on wood," said Snape. "I'd be careful with old cloth, though, especially embroidered cloth. Try some on an inconspicuous section first."

"You sound like the instructions on every furniture cleaner I've ever bought," said one of the other women, who was introduced to Snape as Mrs. Dodson, like Mrs. Roach a neighbor on the road between the village and Snape's cottage. The other two ladies were Mrs. Hackett and Mrs. Morley.

"That's because it's good advice," Snape pointed out. Then he went to his well for fresh spring water, and from there to his workshop where he measured three drops of his bundimun potion into each jar, and diluted it with the well water. "Be sure you mix this in a bucket of water," he warned as he gave each woman her jar back. "Stronger doesn't make it better. Wear gloves. And just wipe, don't scour. If you have something that won't clean by gentle wiping, tell me about it."

"How much?" asked Mrs. Ridley

"I haven't decided," said Snape. "I don't even know what companies usually charge for something like this. It's for the church. Consider it a gift. After you see how it works, we can settle on a future price that's fair to everyone."

By the middle of the afternoon, the framing on the entire cottage was complete, and the men started finishing the walls. Snape was kept very busy shooting nails through plywood panels into studs. The men worked, as usual, until about four o'clock, at which point Snape realized that he had more visitors – two boys on bicycles who'd been watching the show.

"Well, Master Morley and Master Hackett," Snape said as he approached Jack and Wally, "what brings you out here?"

Jack rubbed a grubby hand on his jeans and then reached into his pocket. "We thought you might be interested in these," he said, holding out a little packet of tissue paper. "We found them next to the church."

Snape carefully unwrapped the packet. In it were half a dozen bright blue feathers speckled with dark brown. The were not the long flight feathers, but rather the softer contour feathers that would cover a bird's body.

"They've been flapping around a lot up there," Jack explained. "We think they're getting ready to fly. Didn't you say the feathers were useful?"

"They are, very," said Snape. "They're used in memory potions. I… eh… how much do you want for them?"

"Money!" Wally exclaimed. "You pay money for bird feathers?"

"Lots of people do." Snape examined the feathers carefully. "They're a touch rare, and a valuable commodity. And you are now suppliers."

"Nah," said Jack. "It doesn't seem fair to make you pay. You saved them, after all, and all we did was pick the feathers up off the ground. Do you think you might get enough so you could sell them to other witches?"

"We only have four birds so far, and we don't know if they'll stay. If they do, and if the community gets larger, then we'll be able to sell them." The prospect of another source of income was making Snape feel positively rich.

The boys agreed to keep an eye out for more birds and more feathers, then cycled back to the village. Snape went over to the sheltered place where his possessions were stacked and opened a box of books. He was pretty sure he had a book with a potion that used jobberknoll feathers, and he wanted to refresh his memory. He took the book and the feathers with him to the Latimers' house.

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_Thursday, August 5, 1999_

In the end, as is the way with all remodeling projects, there was more work, less time, and greater costs than had originally been planned. Snape found himself with a serious tradeoff. The only honorable thing to do was discuss it with Mrs. Hanson, whose life was now affected by this as much as his own.

Mrs. Hanson had baked scones, which she served with clotted cream and jam, thus taking Snape so far back into his childhood that he would have done anything she requested, right there and then, no questions asked.

"So," said Mrs. Hanson, "what are we talking about, in terms of living conditions?"

"Solid walls and roof, weatherproofing layer already up but not yet insulated, plastered or shingled. Inside most of the drywall is up, but bare. The subflooring is a solid tongue and groove, construction, so it's better than plywood, but no floor coverings – no hardwood, no tile, nothing like that except in the bathrooms, and that's plain and boring because we'll probably want to change in. Plumbing is all in, hot and cold, but the hot has to be magicked until we get a working water heater. Wood stove, which you'll have to get used to because it stays, and candles for lighting. No telephone, not yet anyway, but I understand our closest neighbors have lines, so that might not be as hard as I thought. Nothing palatial at all. You can move the bare necessities in tomorrow on schedule and endure the rest of the construction, or you can wait another week or so until it's more complete. It's really your choice."

"I'd hate t' leave this place unoccupied," said Mrs. Hanson, looking around, "with so many things in it."

"I can take care of that, if that's all," Snape assured her. "Guarding and locking spells are easy."

"About a week more construction, you say?"

"The man with the solar collectors comes on Tuesday. Then the wiring goes in. After that, we can finish up."

"Might be fun roughing it for a week or so. What would I need t' bring?"

Snape smiled. "Whatever would make you comfortable in your room. Rug, bed, wardrobe, chair and small table, clothes, bed and bath linens… I can come around with a truck or two, and the men to carry things. Best if not too much comes from upstairs. I can't help with magic there. A protection spell cast from outside is one thing. Levitation spells cast inside a muggle house are a lot different."

They agreed on ten o'clock the next morning, and Snape popped back to his cottage from an alley a little way away from Mrs. Hanson's house.

It not yet being supper time, Snape decided to go to the pub to talk a couple of his work crew into driving over to Mrs. Hanson's the next day. Helen Ridley was outside the grocery clearing the goods from the display shelf so she could swing it back up and lock it in place. She waved and called to him.

"Have you seen the chapel yet?"

"No, I haven't," Snape called back. "Did everything work all right?"

"Come and see. They're hanging the panels and working on the plate right now."

She left her task at the grocery and pulled Snape over to the chapel, which was unlocked because the little crew of women were finishing up inside.

The chapel glowed. Wooden pews gleamed with a soft patina, windows sparkled, and the flagstone floor was the same soft milky orange as the oldest gravestones outside. The panels Mrs. Ridley referred to were narrow strips of embroidered cloth that hung two-thirds of the way up the high walls like an architectural detail in lieu of a fresco. On the table altar, a pair of candlesticks shone, for burnished brass is brighter than polished gold. Vases stood ready for flowers, and the tapestry cushions on the kneelers looked new.

"That is some wonderful brew you make there," Mrs. Ridley said, with a nudge to Snape's ribs. "It went so fast, we couldn't believe it. We kept looking for more things to do, so we cleaned the rest of the gravestones, too. We were talking about having paramedics stand by, in case the parson has a heart attack."

"You might warn him first," Snape cautioned. "Let him know before he walks in the door that you've been working very hard."

After that, Snape continued on to the pub where his problem turned out to be other than expected. Instead of having to persuade the men to help with a couple of trucks, he had to chose which would be permitted to drive. Ernie Hackett might be blessed with a loving wife, but most of the others were widowers. It was decided that Fred Allsop and Charlie Latimer would take their trucks, with Sam Logan and Oscar Wainwright to help carry the furniture.

Snape agreed to meet them in the village at nine-thirty the next morning. He was expecting an interesting day.

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_Friday, August 6, 1999_

The entire day proved to be a learning experience.

To begin with, both Allsop and Latimer had washed their pickups, and the insides of the cabs were spotless. All four men were dressed much more neatly than a day moving furniture would generally call for, and it was the first time that Snape had detected aftershave on any of them, the culprit being Wainwright.

The next surprise was Mrs. Hanson, and here it was not so much Mrs. Hanson herself – she was quite natural about the whole thing – but the fact that for the first time Snape was seeing her the way others saw her, and not as the comforting motherly figure she had always been to him.

She heard the trucks coming from the bridge, and was at the door to meet them, round faced, rosy, a little plump, but with a bright smile, sparkling eyes, and shining silvery hair. The men had their caps off before they were out of the trucks, and there was a bit of jostling over who would go through the little gate first.

Snape solved that problem by being first himself. "Good morning, Mrs. Hanson," he said as he slipped through the group and introduced them. "Have you decided on everything you want to go today?"

"I have, dear," she replied as she led them into the house. "I thought the little bed from under the stairs would do until the place is decorated. I had it for my niece, y' know," she confided to the men, "for when she visited with her parents. They'd be upstairs, and we'd pull it out t' let her sleep in the sitting room. It's not been used for years."

The little house was immaculate, even with the packing boxes in the sitting room, but then it always was, so this was no surprise to Snape. What he seemed to notice for the first time was how frilly and feminine it was, an image of the woman who lived there. She had, also no surprise, scones with cream and jam on the table, and a pot of tea under a cozy.

"Now you all sit down," she told the men. "You can't do hard work on an empty stomach."

While the men had the opportunity to evaluate Mrs. Hanson's excellent baking skills, she told them about the job.

"You did say we'd have a bit of electricity after they put those things on the roof, so I thought I might take the small desk in the sitting room and a couple of lamps, and a comfortable easy chair for reading. Oh, and there's a rug upstairs, and a chest of drawers, and I've put the bed and bath linens into boxes, but I worry about the wardrobe that's also upstairs, that it might be too much…"

"I have a wardrobe," said Snape. "There's now a built-in clothes closet on the upper floor for me, so you can use that until we're ready to bring more of the things. So everything's down here except for the rug and the dresser?"

"Yes, I think that's it."

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am," said Allsop who, like the other men, had been paying careful attention to the scones. "Would you need any kitchen equipment? Pots and pans and the like?" Wainwright, Logan, and Latimer nodded in emphatic agreement.

"I'm not sure," Mrs. Hanson looked to Snape for a decision. "You'd already have things, wouldn't you, Russ?"

"Just the basics for bachelor cooking," Snape confessed. "Nothing fancy yet, and nothing for baking. I don't have the talent for cakes and other sweets."

Mrs. Hanson laughed, a soft gentle laugh. "Well, that's what you'll need me for, then, isn't it? It'll be good t' have someone t' make pies for again."

There were some extra boxes, and the men also used the drawers from the chest to pack the kitchenware. Pie and cake tins, muffin tins, biscuit cutters, tart molds, bread pans – it was immediately evident that the men were thinking not of the weight of the dishes, but of the delights that could come out of them – and when Logan found the heavy pot and thermometer for making candy, they openly admitted to having died and gone to heaven.

Since it was a muggle house, none of the labor could be done by magic. Even Snape's non-magical assistance was turned down, each of the four men vying to show who could lift the most and pack the best. With everything finally assembled downstairs, the actual loading of the trucks went quickly, the furniture padded and protected, the two loads tied under tarps and as secure as was humanly possible.

The final act fell to Snape. Outside and from a short distance, with the others standing guard against the chance that someone was watching, he cast a series of locking and protecting spells to secure the rest of Mrs. Hanson's belongings until needed. Snape and Mrs. Hanson rode with Latimer, and the other three in the second truck. It was a little after two o'clock when they got to the cottage.

Albert Morley, determined to do his best to make up his already considerable disadvantage, was waiting there for them, to help with the rest of the moving.

After having Morley introduced to her, Mrs. Hanson entered the cottage to show the men where she wanted her things, the first being, of course, the rug. When Morley and Latimer came out to get the rug, Snape raised his wand for a levitation spell, only to have Latimer seize his wrist and push the wand down.

"Stop showing off," Latimer said sternly. "Time for that when we take your stuff upstairs."

"But it's my house," Snape started to say, then thought better of it and went around the cottage to his workshop, where he kept himself busy collecting bundimun secretions while the men humored Mrs. Hanson by trying the furniture in various arrangements around her room, then hung the curtains and unpacked the pots, pans, and linens, the lucky four describing the scones to the unfortunate Morley as they did so.

Finally it was Snape's turn. Here levitation was a blessing, and he magicked the stove, sofa, bed – in fact everything remotely heavy – so that all the men had to do was guide it into place where another spell settled it onto the floor. There hadn't been much, so when they were finished, the house was still fairly empty.

It was, by now, getting close to suppertime, so the men took their leave, together with profuse thanks from both Snape and Mrs. Hanson, and Mrs. Hanson's stated desire to go to church on Sunday morning. Snape smiled to himself at the thought of the Reverend Davidson's double shock – a clean church and a larger than normal congregation. He was looking forward to seeing it.

Mrs. Hanson sighed as she watched the two trucks head into the village. "It'll be nice t' have gentlemen callers again," she said. "Is everyone around here that nice?"

"Pretty much," said Snape, holding the door for her to enter and leading the way back to the kitchen where Mrs. Hanson sat at the table while he lit the stove. "You may be the cause of a couple of duels to the death, but the place could use a bit of excitement."

"Lordy, Russ, what an imagination you have!" Mrs. Hanson laughed. "Duels indeed." She watched him carefully. "You're going t' have t' show me how t' do that."

"Tomorrow," Snape promised. "First you rest a bit. It's been a long day." He paused and looked around. "You know," he said, "there's no food in the house. I need to go into the village, pick up my things from Hugh and Gillian, and get something to eat."

"I'll go with you."

"I'm taking the bicycle. I'm tired, too, you know. It won't take long. Meanwhile, you can have a cup of tea, explore your new home without me following you all over, do a bit of reading before it gets dark…"

"Do you have a newspaper?" she asked. "I like doing those crossword puzzles."

"I'll get one in the village."

Snape went first to get Mrs. Hanson's newspaper. The only place that sold papers was the Baileys' hotel at the other end of the village, on the road to Foulridge. That was just two more streets over, since the village was so small. It was Snape's first time inside the hotel, whose lobby was full of walking tourists come for a weekend in the hills. 'Full' meant a little over a dozen, the hotel being a small one.

"There you are!" called a familiar voice, and Snape turned to face Emily Dyson, who sat by a cash register where maps, newspapers, magazines, and a few books were for sale. "So you finally remembered to come see me! Word has it you're bringing new blood in."

Snape had to admit, shamefaced, that he'd forgotten his promise to visit Mrs. Dyson. "It's the remodeling," he told her. "It's kept me so busy, I don't have time for much else.

I'm here right now for a paper. Mrs. Hanson likes the crosswords."

"You should have brought her," said Mrs. Dyson, handing him a paper and collecting the money.

"I wanted her to rest. It's been a busier day than she's had for a while."

"Don't wrap her too much in cotton. It's not good for us."

"I'll remember that. She wants to come to church on Sunday. Maybe we'll have lunch at the restaurant."

"I'll make Bridget reserve you a table," Mrs. Dyson grinned. "Maybe I'll join you."

Going next to pick up his few belongings at the Latimers', Snape found that they, too, had heard all about the events of the day from Hugh's father. It had only been a couple of words in passing, but from those words, they had gleaned a lot.

"It's been a while since I've seen Dad looking so cheerful," was Hugh's comment.

The last stop was the Ridley's grocery for food for the weekend, and then Snape was riding back home with his parcels tied to the back of the bike. Mrs. Hanson was standing in the doorway and waved when she saw him. She reminded Snape of his mother.

"This isn't your parents' sofa," said Mrs. Hanson the next morning as she and Snape went through the house. checking what they already had.

"No, that's still in the old house. I didn't want to go back there this spring. I was afraid I'd be seen and recognized."

"Then we have three. This one's smaller, almost like a love seat. That's nice, having a big one and a small one both. I imagine all of them need new padding and upholstery, but if the frames are good, there's no reason t' buy new."

"D' you know how t' do that?" Snape asked, beginning to slip back into the cadences of his youth.

"I do. And with you t' fasten and stitch, it'll go fast."

"Well, shall we go room by room, or type by type? Say, maybe the floors first?"

"I'd like some hard wood for the floors. Tile in the kitchen? Would that be nice?"

Snape frowned. "It sounds expensive already. I'm afraid I do have t' pinch pennies."

"We could sell things. There's three sofas. Sell the best one..."

"That would be yours."

"…and keep the other two."

"Would local stone be cheaper? At least for downstairs? Upstairs the boards of the subfloors are good enough, if there're rugs down."

Mrs. Hanson smiled. "That's what I've had all my life. Y' don't think I ever had the money t' put down fancy floors now, do you?"

They decided to check out flooring first, since it would be one of the biggest expenses, then Snape spent a couple of hours sorting and arranging books while Mrs. Hanson did the same with the kitchen equipment. Snape fretted over the large number of books that were missing, they having gone into the library at Hogwarts. _And getting Irma Pince to cough them back up again would be like getting Ebenezer Scrooge to cough up a farthing._ That set him thinking, though. _I wonder what kind of ghost show it would take to mellow old Pince?_

After lunch, there was a warning to issue. Out in the yard, Snape pointed to his work shed. "Don't ever go in there or touch anything there. That's for magical people only. Muggle hands could ruin whatever's brewing there. After it's finished, then you can use it."

All that afternoon, they worked in the garden, Mrs. Hanson enchanted by the number and quality of the plants. "I remember your grandmother," she confided. "We never spoke, but I saw her once or twice. She didn't half frighten me… so regal. Of course, by then I knew about 'Leen."

Another introduction was made that evening after supper. Taking a small table and chairs out into the yard, Snape and Mrs. Hanson sat drinking tea. Then Snape rose and called gently, "Nelson? Nelson, I'd like you to meet someone…"

It took a few minutes of calling before the tawny owl appeared, but before too long he glided out of the trees on silent wings and landed softly on the grass. _"Hoo,"_ he said, his head cocked to one side, looking at Mrs. Hanson.

"What a lovely little owl!" Mrs. Hanson exclaimed.

"His name is Nelson. Nelson, this is Mrs. Hanson. She lives here now."

_"Kew-wick,"_ said Nelson.

"Good evening t' you, too," said Mrs. Hanson.

"Come on up where we can talk," Snape told Nelson, patting the top of the table, "and show Mrs. Hanson your mail pouch."

"Oh, my. It is!" Mrs. Hanson examined the little leather pouch on Nelson's leg. "Does he really carry letters?"

"Yes, and he will go to Mr. Ridley's grocery, and to the local copper, Hugh Latimer, and to a couple of people on the 'other' side."

"Anyone I know?" Mrs. Hanson asked.

It was an awkward moment. "There w…as a f…uneral," Snape said, "last year."

"I remember."

"There was a very, very large man, and a teenage boy with black hair and glasses."

"And green eyes."

"Right. Hagrid, and Harry Potter. Nelson knows where they are, too. In case you ever need them."

That left the hardest thing. "And you also have to know that I can sometimes… eh… go to pieces."

"Love ya, dear, we all do that," laughed Mrs. Hanson.

"No, I mean really." Snape stared at his hands. "It's because… well, I didn't get younger because… you were at the funeral… it's diff… it's a different…"

Mrs. Hanson looked worried. "I thought 't was one of those things like… what 'Leen could do."

"No," Snape sighed. "Even witches can't do that. I'm a clone, like that sheep Dolly. They found a lock of my baby hair that Mum saved and used that. The thoughts and memories are mine, though, from before. It's a long, complicated story. The problem is, they don't exactly… mesh. Sometimes they come apart."

"Oh dear," said Mrs. Hanson. "Is it dangerous?"

"No, no, not at all. The thoughts come out – and they look like a little pool of fog on the floor – and the body… faints. If that ever happens, all you have to do is call Nelson and send him to Hugh Latimer, the constable. He knows exactly what to do. And just leave me alone 'til he gets here. That's all."

"Well, there's a relief. I think I can do that."

"I'm pretty sure you can. As I recall, you're rather cool under pressure."

Mrs. Hanson laughed again — bright, silver laughter. "So, I'm like one of those buttons old people wear about their necks in case they fall, so they can call for help. You're a regular senior citizen, you are, Russ!"

"Oh, great. Thank you very much."

After supper, Mrs. Hanson fretted over what to wear to church the following morning. "You've been t' services, right? What do the women wear?" she called from her bedroom.

"Dresses," said Snape. He was sitting in the kitchen nursing a small goblet of sherry as the long evening shadows advanced slowly toward sunset. It was around eight-thirty, with half an hour to go until full dark. "Nothing fancy. Just… normal."

"Hats?"

"I don't think I've ever seen one of them wear a hat."

"I know I haven't been in a church for an age, and call me old-fashioned, but I wouldn't feel right without something on m' head."

"Suit yourself."

What Mrs. Hanson picked was a simply cut, blue dress with three-quarter sleeves, gloves, and a little pillbox hat. To Snape, it looked somewhat nineteen-fifties, but he wasn't about to complain. It would probably please the ones it was meant to please, and since it fit her properly, was modest without being hopelessly dated, and suited her personality, he saw no reason to become a fashion consultant.

_Not that I would ever be a good fashion consultant. With my luck, the wizard genes would kick in, and I'd spoil everything._

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Snape and Mrs. Hanson were both awoken from a sound sleep at two o'clock the next morning by the blare of a truck's horn and frantic pounding on the front door.

"Mr. Snape!" It was Fred Allsop's voice. "Mr. Snape! Please, sir! Come at once! It's the horses! They've gone for the horses again!"

Snape threw open an upper story window. "Who's gone after the horses? What's happened?"

"Hooligans, sir! It happened four years ago, too. Broke into the stables and went for the horses. Knives. The foal's bad, sir! He may be dead!"

Throwing a coat over his pajamas, Snape raced down the stairs. Mrs. Hanson was waiting, wrapped in a flannel dressing gown. "D' you need me?" she asked.

"I might. D' you want t' come?"

"Yes."

Accioing a black bag – a bag similar to the one his grandmother used to carry in emergencies – Snape rushed out to Allsop's truck. "Take Mrs. Hanson. I'll meet you there," he told Allsop, then stepped away from the truck and disapparated.

Allsop's home was another old cottage, his being north of the village. He had a small barn where he kept three mares, Welsh cobs, that had been trained to harness and had had their share of ribbons in horse driving trials. He bred them now, for the foals were biddable, taking easily to both harness and saddle, Daisy, the bay, in particular turning out a string of good jumpers with steady dispositions, excellent as children's mounts in a hunt.

The area around the house and barn was a scene of unusual activity, for all three constables were there, together with Wainwright, Logan, Hackett, and Morley. Emergency electric lanterns and the headlights of their vehicles illuminated both buildings and a large fenced-in circle used for training. In the circle, the little bay foal – Daisy's colt – lay unmoving on his side.

Everybody heard the distinctive 'pop' as Snape came in, though none of them actually saw him arrive, only Hugh understanding the significance of the sound from the other side of the barn until Snape strode out where they could see him. He went right to the paddock.

It is sad that anything as beautiful and loving as a horse can attract the most brutal and sadistic misfits that humanity can produce, but those who live in or near horse breeding territory know that all too often stables are attacked and animals mutilated for no sane reason.

The narrow burn around the foal's neck said that a rope had been tightened there, while whip marks and darkening bruises showed that he'd been beaten to make him run faster. Probably kicked after he fell, as well, and slashed with the knives. He was about seven months old.

"What about the others?" Snape asked as he knelt in the dirt next to the colt. "How bad are they?"

"Cut up a bit," said Hackett, "but they fought back, even locked in the stalls as they were. They knew that lot was dangerous. How's Fred?"

"Coming with Mrs. Hanson," said Snape, then registered Hackett's tone of voice. "Was he injured, too? He didn't say, and I didn't wait."

"They clubbed him when he came running out of the house. Luckily they just left him lying, and when he came to a bit later, they were busy and not attending to him. He was smart enough to crawl back into the house and call me. I'm nearest. They lit out when they saw my headlights."

As he listened, Snape checked the young horse, whose breath had a strange rasping note to it. He tried opening an eye and 'reading' it, without success. _This is a time when I could use someone like Paul Hooper,_ he thought. Since the external injuries didn't seem life threatening, he started with the colt's neck and throat, laying his left hand on the soft hair while passing his wand back and forth about an inch from the skin. As soon as Haskell stopped his account, Snape began a low crooning chant.

"Is that wise?" asked Hugh, coming up behind them. "We may be able to catch them, but if there's no longer any physical evidence that they harmed the horses, the most we'll be able to charge them with is trespass and minor vandalism."

"I think Allsop would rather have his horses well and whole. Besides, Hackett tells me there's an assault charge as well," said Snape, and continued his crooning. From inside the barn came a sudden burst of angry squealing and the sound of hooves striking wood. "That would be his mum," Snape murmured. "It might help if you let her out."

Hackett and Logan went to the barn, reasoning that it could require both of them to control Daisy. When they returned, the mare was pulling at her lead, weaving and dodging to break free, her ears laid back in anxiety and fear. She plunged forward when she saw the man kneeling next to her foal, then slowed and danced in place as she recognized him. Walking more calmly, Daisy moved behind Snape and nuzzled his shoulder. The colt stirred, opening frightened, dark eyes, and Daisy nickered to him. Snape shifted his attention to the animal's back and chest. From down the road they could hear the approach of Allsop's truck.

After about twenty minutes, the colt scrambled to his feet, bleating for his mother, butting her in an attempt to suckle as soon as he found her near. "Hey there," cried Allsop, almost laughing with relief, "you're a bit old for that, young one! Let the doctor take care of your dam, now!"

Wainwright and Morley got their hands under Snape's arms and hauled him to his feet, too, where he swayed slightly from the drain of healing. "I had a bag," he muttered, and they brought it to him so that he could salve the cuts and abrasions of the mares, all now brought out to move freely around the paddock. He did leave some of the less serious wounds as evidence for the police, and checked, but did not heal, the lump on Allsop's head for the same reason.

Mrs. Hanson was in Allsop's kitchen making coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs for the men. The three constables continued their investigation, calling for a forensics team and taping off areas to be examined. Snape went into the house, sat down on the sofa, and immediately fell asleep, Allsop spreading a blanket over him to keep him warm.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Sunday, August 8, 1999 (3 days before the new moon)_

At about seven o'clock the next morning, with the sun well up in the sky, a pair of teenagers cycled onto Allsop's property. They were stopped by a member of the police forensics team. "Sorry, there's an investigation going on here. Can't cross a police line."

"Hold on!" Hugh called from the paddock fence where he was assisting a photographer. "We know them! Give us a mo' while I get them in the house, Brian." He came over brushing traces of powder off his hands. He was wearing latex gloves. "Morning, Harry. Ginny. What brings you here?"

"We thought we'd call on the pr… on Russ and Mrs. Hanson," said Ginny, "but the house was empty. Mr. Ridley said he thought they might be here. You had some excitement last night."

"Vandals," said Hugh. "Joe's right, though. If we let you through the line, we'll have to fingerprint you." He looked over his shoulder at the other policeman. "Do you want hair samples, too?"

Harry's eyes widened, but Ginny just laughed. "Why would you do that?" said Harry. "We weren't here last night."

"We have to lift every fingerprint and every trace of people from the scene that we can. Then we eliminate the ones we know – Allsop or Hackett, for example – and the remaining unknowns are like to be our culprits. Fred can't guarantee they didn't go in the house, so we'll have to…"

"You can't let them go in there," muttered the aggrieved Joe. "It's bad enough you've got half the village there already. We'll end up fingerprinting all of Lancashire before you're done."

"Special case," said Hugh and, directing Harry and Ginny to leave the bikes by the road, he escorted them to the house. "But keep your voices down," he advised at the door before rejoining Brian the photographer, "he's still asleep."

"Who's…?" Harry started to say, then saw Snape, curled on his side on the sofa, his long hair slightly tousled and wearing (though it was mostly covered by a frayed green blanket) what appeared to be a coat thrown on over his pajamas. "Is he all right?" Harry asked Allsop, who was sitting in an easy chair. The rest, judging from the quiet voices, were in the kitchen.

"He'll be fine," Allsop replied. "It's just the healing drains them. His grandmother was the same. After something serious like this, she'd be exhausted. There's coffee in the kitchen."

Harry turned away, then realized Ginny wasn't moving. She was staring down at Snape, at the gentle curve of wrists and fingers where his hands lay next to his head, and the relaxation of skin and muscle around his eyes and mouth.

"He looks so young," Ginny whispered.

Taking her right elbow in one hand and applying pressure to the back of her left shoulder with the other, Harry steered Ginny out of the sitting room. "He needs to be left alone. You don't want to be waking him up. Not right now."

Conversation paused when the two young people entered the kitchen, then Mrs. Hanson, from her place at the head of the table, said, "Oh, right! You're the one Nelson knows. Harry Potter, isn't it?"

"That's right, ma'am," said Harry. "You might also remember my friend Ginny Weasley. We were both students of the professor's. Is he okay?"

"Just tired," said the man on Mrs. Hanson's left. "But you'd know that already, wouldn't you?"

"I'm not a healer," Harry admitted. "Even with us it's a rare talent."

"I'm Oscar Wainwright," the man said, extending a hand, then introducing the others and inviting Harry and Ginny to sit with them.

"Does one of you," Harry ventured, "have an apple orchard with bowtruckles?"

"That'd be me." Logan raised his hand slightly. "Not sure as I want them. The bowtruckles, I mean."

"It's got him mystified," said Harry. "Your bowtruckles, Mr. Ridley's bundimuns, the jobberknolls at the church. This isn't one of 'our' villages, if you know what I mean, and we're not sure why they're here."

Allsop stuck his head through the doorway. "He's waking up and, begging your pardon, Kate, I think it'd be best if he saw you first, it being a strange house and all."

xxxxxxxxxx

Snape hunched in on himself, then stretched and blinked his eyes open. His first thought was surprise that Mrs. Hanson would be in his bedroom watching him. It was only gradually that it dawned on him that he was not in his bedroom. "What happened?" he asked.

"You got called out t' help an injured horse, love," was that lady's reply, "and you've been sleeping it off ever since."

"So this must be…"

"Fred's house. And it's about a quarter after seven of a Sunday morning."

"We figured," added Allsop, coming up behind Mrs. Hanson, "that you'd do better seeing Kate before you had to look at our mugs."

"Fred and Kate!" Snape exclaimed, pushing himself up on an elbow. "You two are working fast." He was gratified by the appearance of a rather attractive blush on Mrs. Hanson's face.

"No faster than with Oscar, or Sam, or Ernie," she said. "While you were sleeping, we were up all night watching. Oh, and Ernie, you'd best let the police know."

"Know what?" Snape demanded. "I didn't administer medicine. I sang. There's no law against…"

"They have to fingerprint us," said Harry, moving to where Snape could see him. "It's standard procedure."

"Is the entire world here watching me sleep!" Snape started to swing his legs off the sofa and stand up, then saw Ginny and pulled the blanket across his lap, but not before she saw that the legs of his pajamas were covered with mud.

"Harry and I just got here," Ginny said. "About ten minutes before you woke up. We've been in the kitchen and haven't done any watching."

Joe the forensics man chose that moment to walk in, and all attention turned to business. The policeman was carrying a clipboard with fingerprint cards, an ink pad, and a little plastic pump bottle with hand-washing gel. "Have you ever done this before?" he asked Snape, Harry, and Ginny.

"Don't worry," stage-whispered Mrs. Hanson. "We've already done it, and it's that easy."

"The important thing," said Joe, "is to relax and let me do it. Don't try to make the impression yourself. I'll do all the work."

"Is this really necessary?" Snape asked. "I'm not really a suspect, am I?"

"They need your fingerprints," Ginny explained as if this were something she'd known all her life, "so they'll know which fingerprints don't belong to the culprits. They'll lift one of yours off the door jamb and say, 'We know him; it's that Snape person, and they won't have to waste time on it."

"Oh, well, if that's all it is…" Snape sat quietly as Joe arranged his paraphernalia. Then the real battle began.

"No, just let the finger go limp. I'll place it on the card, and I'll roll it for the proper… There. You smudged that one and I'll have to start a new card. Now relax, like a rag doll. Good, that was a good thumb… Don't go tense on me or this won't be right. Good… nope, smudged again. Now relax! No, I'm not even going to try that one because as stressed as you are right now, it's a lost cause. Are you studying medicine or business administration? Because you are control-centered, you are, and if you don't relax…"

Joe gave up on Snape and did both Harry and Ginny first. Then he reentered the fray. "Just let your hands go limp, and let me do my job!"

"Close your eyes, Professor," Ginny advised, "and try to fall asleep again. The closer you are to sleep, the easier it will be."

"So he's a professor," observed Joe. "I'd've thought too young, but it explains a lot. Control freaks, them professors." But with Snape's eyes closed and Ginny murmuring into his ear, Snape relaxed enough so that Joe was able to leave with a decent set of prints.

"We were going to go to church this morning," Snape said after the police business was concluded. "I need to get home and change clothes."

"Your arrival last night was a bit spectacular," said Logan. "I wouldn't mind seeing you 'pop out' like that again."

"It wouldn't be fair to Mrs. Hanson," Snape pointed out. "Not with me traveling that fast and her having to go in a truck. For the horses, yes, but it's not that urgent anymore. Besides, the coppers are watching."

It was the watching coppers who decided the matter. Brian, Joe, and the rest of the forensics team were not privy to the village's secrets, so Allsop drove Snape and Mrs. Hanson home while Harry and Ginny followed on the bikes.

"It looks nice," Ginny commented as she looked around the cottage. "I like the way you've fit the old hearth into the study."

"We're thinking of the floors next," said Mrs. Hanson, "and were debating wood or stone."

"It's a matter of seeing how the finances are after the solar panels go in," Snape admitted.

"Solar…!" Harry exclaimed. "You're putting in electricity?"

"No, of course not. I just thought they were more aesthetically pleasing than shingles. Hang the expense."

"But what would you do with electricity?"

"Oh, you know. All those unnecessary luxuries of the muggle world… lights, a refrigerator, Mrs. Hanson's television… I was hoping to get a computer…"

"Not you, too! Dudley spent hours playing games, and I don't think it made him an ounce smarter."

"Smart is not weighed in ounces, Potter. Besides, didn't you ever hear of the 'information superhighway?' An American phrase, I know, but the reality is available to the British as well."

Mrs. Hanson and Ginny had abandoned the two to their discussion, and Mrs. Hanson was showing the younger woman her room and the remodeled kitchen. Snape and Harry were standing in the front sitting room. "What's on this 'superhighway?'" Harry demanded.

"Access to the libraries of the major universities of the world," Snape began in the tone that said he had a list, but was stopped by Harry.

"No need to go any further. I see the attraction."

"Good. And now I'm going to have to ask your indulgence because I made a commitment to escort Mrs. Hanson to church this morning, and after last night I need a little time to freshen up."

"I expect Mrs. Hanson is tired and would welcome…"

"No she isn't!" Ginny called from the kitchen, proof positive that she'd been eavesdropping. "Not if Fred and Oscar and Sam are going to be there!"

"There," said Snape. "You see? Now, if you'll excuse me…" and he headed for the kitchen and the stairs leading up to his bed- and bathroom. "Don't slam the door on your way out."

No door slammed as Snape showered and changed into a dark suit – his father's, and the only one he owned – then came back downstairs running a comb through his lank hair. Harry and Ginny were in the sitting room sipping cups of tea. Mrs. Hanson was, from the sound of it, showering and freshening up herself.

"Still here, I see," said Snape, his voice a touch acid.

"We've figured out what you need," said Ginny.

"Ginny's figured out what you need," amended Harry. "I wasn't really involved."

"What do I need?" Snape asked.

"A porlock." Ginny waited for Snape's reaction, got none, then said with a note of superiority, "You _do_ know what a porlock is?"

"Of course I do. I didn't make bets for twelve years with Professor Kettleburn for nothing. I would like to point out, however, that _I_ don't need one, not having any horses. Furthermore, Fred Allsop probably can't use one since he's – now don't be shocked – a muggle, and besides, there are no porlocks in Lancashire."

Ginny's face broadcast exasperation to the room in general. "For your information, Mr. Know-It-All Professor, the number of wizards who keep horses is about the same as the number of muggles who raise thestrals. All porlocks work in muggle stables. Second, the center of porlockdom is right next to us… in Dorset. Third, there's been an increase in porlock unemployment, and I would imagine it would be fairly easy to find one willing to migrate north if there were a steady job involved."

That piqued Snape's interest. "What's happened in Dorset to unemploy porlocks?"

"Free-range pork," Ginny replied. "You would not believe what they're farming for meat these days. There's venison farms, and even ostrich farms. And free-range is all the rage. Free-range chickens and free-range pigs. More profitable for some than the horses, and…"

"How would you know?" Snape challenged her. "Those are muggle industries, and you're a witch."

Ginny shrugged. "Mum has to buy meat someplace," she said.

Although invited (by Mrs. Hanson, not by Snape), Harry and Ginny politely declined to accompany the two to church. They had merely wanted to see that all was well with the new arrangements – which Snape, to his surprise, found touching rather than annoying – and to use the cottage as a starting point for a repeat of Harry's biking tour with Snape. He'd described his little adventure to Ginny and she, shrewdly noting the pleasure the simple memory brought him, had instantly placed bicycle riding high on the list of muggle things she had to learn. The two bade Snape and Mrs. Hanson a good morning and started off along the moor path towards Barnoldswick.

Mrs. Hanson then paid considerable attention to Snape's suit and tie. "He was a smidge bigger than you," she commented, adjusting the shoulders and smoothing the lapels. ""Course, he was a grown man, and you're a teenager. Didn't he never show you how t' tie a necktie?"

"Died before I was old enough to need one," Snape replied. "Can you do anything with it?"

She straightened the tie. "It's lucky taking in is easier than letting out. You won't need it today. It isn't that noticeable."

"Besides, they'll all be paying attention to you. Who's going to look at me?"

"Go on with you, Russ," Mrs. Hanson cried, slapping him playfully on the arm. "I'm no beauty. They've seen better than me."

Snape held her at arms length. "Beautiful might give you a run for your money," he informed her, "but they've never seen better. It doesn't exist."

They gave themselves a good half hour and were approaching the church ten minutes before the service was due to start. Reverend Davidson was at the door, beaming on everyone who entered. He had, naturally, seen the transformation of his chapel the night before, at evening prayer. The spark of pleasure it brought him to know this little space was appreciated shone in his face and posture and radiated from his entire being. The minister positively glowed.

"Good morning, Mr. Snape," he said, shaking Snape's hand. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting…"

"My aunt," Snape told him. "On my mother's side. Aunt… eh… Kate, this is the preacher, Mr. Davidson. Reverend, Mrs. Hanson."

It being so soon before the service was to start, nobody bothered the two except for nods of welcome and a certain amount of sliding over to make room in a middle pew. "Just like when I was a girl," sighed Mrs. Hanson as she fingered the hinge of the small gate that boxed them in.

Again the chapel was fairly full, for news of Mrs. Hanson's presence had preceded her. She, it turned out, not only knew how to follow the little book, but was a kneeler, which contributed to a tiny amount of confusion as certain gentlemen tried to decide, in the space of a few seconds, whether they, too, should kneel or not. Snape stayed standing. Only Charlie Latimer made it to his knees, though Snape rather thought Fred Allsop might have, had he not stayed home to tend the still disturbed horses.

Not all was, however, exactly as it had been in Mrs. Hanson's youth. "I miss the music," she confided to the reverend as she left the chapel. "The Church of England has such beautiful music."

"We have, alas, neither instrument nor organist," sighed Davidson. "You don't happen to play yourself?"

"I had some piano," said Mrs. Hanson, "but, love ya, that was decades ago."

"There you are," interjected Mrs. Wainwright from behind them. "It's always good to see new people around here. How are you settling in?"

Snape did the honors: "Mrs. Wainwright, Kate Hanson. Mrs. Hanson, Cora Wainwright," and then was ignored for five minutes as the two ladies exchanged commentary on the excellent service, the lovely woodwork, the lack of music, the condition of the dirt roads, the difficulties a single woman faced in a male-dominated society, how sweet and considerate young Russ was, whether or not it was going to rain, and did Mrs. Hanson or did not Mrs. Hanson play bridge.

"Excuse me," said Snape when he could get a word in edgewise, "but Mrs. Dyson has reserved a table for us for lunch, and I think…"

"Pretty early lunch, isn't it?" Mrs. Wainwright grinned. "Only eleven fifteen."

"We thought we'd avoid the crowd."

"Oh, but maybe Cora 'll join us," said Mrs. Hanson. "It's so nice t' have neighbors again. You don't think Mrs. Dyson 'll mind?"

"Emily?" Mrs. Wainwright laughed. "She'll appreciate the extra customer and join us for the meal. There's not a lot of us single ladies left around here. You won't mind being ignored by a bunch of old women for an hour, will you, Russ?"

"Bunch of old women?" said Snape. "Where? I don't see any old women."

They were four for lunch at the restaurant of the little hotel, and very quickly all titles and formalities were lost so that they were on a first name basis, except that Snape said ma'am a lot, thus avoiding the awkwardness of calling women his mother's and grandmother's age by their first names.

"So when did you realize that 'Leen was 'different,'" Mrs. Wainwright asked Mrs. Hanson after the lone waiter, a seventeen-year-old with a summer job, timidly laid the bread and butter in front of his boss's wife's mother and retreated until they were ready to order, then served the food in as invisible a manner as possible.

"Fairly early on," replied Mrs. Hanson. "She'd do little things when she thought no one was watching."

"It must have been hard for her, after growing up here – having to hide it, I mean. I knew her family well, and I would never have picked her to marry an outsider – Russ, dear, what do you call them?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Snape said. "For 'my' people, you people are 'muggles' and we're 'magical folk.'

"I knew she'd choose a… a muggle," interjected Mrs. Dyson. "'Leen and I grew up together, and she resented being controlled. Her dad was always trying to contr…"

"Richard Prince? Control anything Constantina didn't want controlled? I don't think so. Constantina had him on a short tether."

"You may think so," said Mrs. Dyson, "but that's not what 'Leen thought. Her dad had definite ideas, he did, about what was good for her, and didn't like her mixing with outsiders. She didn't see 'outsiders' the way her dad did, though. For him they were the ones who couldn't… you know… but for 'Leen they were any folk from outside the village. Or outside Pendle district. A true Lanky she was. She didn't want to leave Pendle."

Snape was fascinated. "Are you saying my mother would rather have associated with non-magical Lankies than with wizards? That she was more place oriented than blood oriented?"

"I guess that's what I'm saying," said Mrs. Dyson. "Of course, by the time she got around to finding a husband, her father was dead, and even if she hadn't preferred to stay in Pendle, it would've been hard to turn down Wensley Snape. He was a right old charmer, he was."

"Wensley? Wenny? My great-grandfather Wenny?"

"Do you remember him, Russ?" Mrs. Hanson asked. "You couldn't have been more than five when he died."

"Yes, I do. He had the greatest collection of books and artifacts…"

"That's why he came to see Constantina," Mrs. Wainwright told him. "He knew she was a witch, and he brought her things from far places, sometimes as gifts, and sometimes to find what to do with them. He's the one wanted his Toby to marry Eileen."

"Why?" Snape asked.

"Why to get you, of course. A witch in the family, that's what Wensley wanted. Your dad was from over by Barrowford, but he agreed to the job at that mill so Eileen could be closer to her mother. They were married right here in the chapel."

"I didn't know that." Snape shook his head in wonder. "What was she like as a girl?"

It was a profitable afternoon. Snape learned that his mother had gone to the little school in Weetsmoor together with all the local muggle children, and that they'd depended on her to clean up little messes and fix small damage, and that she'd once gotten into a fist fight with Charlie Latimer, who'd accused her of using magic to cheat in a game of darts when they were both ten. Of course, he was assured, 'Leen _never_ used magic unfairly. She had very strong feelings about it.

"But how could she do magic openly like that?" Snape protested. "We have rules, laws, against it."

Mrs. Dyson shrugged. "Maybe we were just too small a place for them to pay us any attention."

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	12. Chapter 12 – Good Luck for a Porlock 2

**STORY NUMBER THREE: ****Good Luck for a Porlock – Part 2**

Later that afternoon, as Snape walked back to the cottage with Mrs. Hanson, he was quieter than usual. Mrs. Hanson didn't mind, since the socializing had been far more than she'd been used to for a while, and she was tired from the night before as well. Snape wasn't tired; he was thinking, and thinking deeply.

_It felt good to learn things about my mother from people who knew her as a child. It helped me understand her better, get my bearings, as it were. I'm lucky that people who knew her are still alive. At least growing up I had the chance to know my mother. Not everyone does. Potter didn't. If Potter wanted to find out about Lily, where would he go? Petunia? Petunia and I – and her teachers from Hogwarts – are the only ones left. I wonder where her dorm mates are._

The thought that he might actually want to talk to Potter was strange. Snape was going to need time to get accustomed to it.

Because she'd had very little sleep the night before, Mrs. Hanson went to her own room to take a nap. That left Snape with a quandary. He was not averse to talking to Harry, but the one he really wanted at this particular moment was Ginny. Something to do with porlocks. The problem was where to find them.

The two had left for Barnoldswick in the morning, though Snape rather assumed they'd take longer to make the circuit than he and Harry had, that being the way with courting couples. That was assuming they were still courting and hadn't had a tiff along the way. (That thought caused Snape to contemplate the complexities of disapparating with a bicycle. The various possible splinchings made him cringe.)

_Could one assume they would stop along the way for sightseeing? Or to have a spot of lunch? That's a tremendous amount of assuming. It would be so much simpler if they'd left a timetable._

Snape pulled out his own bicycle and headed for the Foulridge Tunnel, that being the most likely place Harry and Ginny would end up. He'd backtrack along the canal road and hope to intercept them. It was that or apparate to the Burrow to try to wheedle out of Molly where Ginny was currently living.

At the west end of Foulridge Tunnel, Snape checked at the pub to see if anyone had noticed a pair of cycling teenagers – boy with spiky black hair and green eyes, girl a brown-eyed redhead. Nobody had.

"Here," said an older working man at one of the tables, "you're not from Weetsmoor, are you?"

"Moved in a couple of months ago," Snape admitted.

The man's smaller companion leaned forward across the table to stage whisper, "It's him, Jake. I swear it's him."

"I think," said Snape with considerable dignity, "that you've mistaken me for someone else."

"Probably," said Jake. "How are Allsop's horses doing?"

"Let me guess," Snape sighed. "This is still inside the area assigned to constables Latimer, Ridley, and Cranmer."

"They're part of the team. Nick lives here. He had to warn people in the outlying homes about prowlers and vandals, you know. Then he had to explain how, with all the damage, Allsop didn't have to get either a doctor or a vet."

"Why do you think I have anything to do with it."

"Family resemblance. Used to be a girl lived in Weetsmoor had a face a lot like yours. Married and moved t' other side of Colne. Bit of unpleasantness about twenty years ago with her mother. Lots of stories. The young ones don't believe any of it. I bet Allsop does, though. Join us for a pint?"

"I'm under age," said Snape.

"You look old enough so I could order you a pint with a bite to eat. We're getting really interested in what's going on up in the hills there."

"Maybe some other time. I do need to find my friends."

"That's a good idea, being discreet. You never know about people. Ask Charlie Latimer or Sam Logan about Jacob Kendall. They'll tell you. You can usually find me here on a Sunday afternoon."

"I might do that," said Snape. He left the pub, mounted his bicycle, and continued, following first the route of the tunnel and then the path that flanked the placid canal. He was a bit uncomfortable at the idea that his family history, and his own presence in the area, were known outside of the village. It could get tricky if word ever got out to the wizarding world in general. The wider the scope of those who knew about him, the harder it was going to be to keep things secret.

_All of Weetsmoor knows,_ he thought, _and now it appears a hefty chunk of Foulridge does, too. Half the staff at Hogwarts knows, the entire Weasley clan, Potter, Granger, Longbottom, and the daughter of the editor of the Quibbler. I think I'm in serious trouble. It's got to be only a matter of time._

That wasn't the worst of it. There was still the problem of communicating with a porlock. He had to give the creature an idea of what he wanted and then let it decide, since he doubted even a porlock would take kindly to a situation into which it had been kidnapped. _How am I going to convey all of this to it, assuming I even find one?_

There was a way, of course – there's always a way – but it meant bringing yet another person into the widening group of those in the know. Assuming, naturally, that Hooper still lived in Norfolk.

_Gad but I'll be happy when things settle down and I don't have to assume a dozen things a day to survive!_

Snape found Harry and Ginny on a grassy knoll, relaxing in the shade of a tree. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing out of Harry's mouth when Snape got close enough to talk to without yelling.

"It's a public right-of-way," retorted Snape. "What are you doing here? This is a respectable country. There are laws about public lewdness."

"We weren't being lewd!" cried Ginny, who then blushed, and then started laughing.

"I didn't say you were," Snape pointed out. "I just said there were laws." He got off his bicycle and laid it on the grass.

Harry had scrambled to his feet. "Okay, now that the preliminary sparring is over, you were obviously looking for us. So, what do you want?"

"Sit down, Potter!" Snape snapped, settling next, but not too close, to Ginny. "Any passerby would think looking at you that we were about to engage in fisticuffs. I was looking for you because Miss Weasley here promised me a porlock."

"No I didn't," Ginny reminded him. "I just said they were in Dorset, and that a lot of them were probably looking for a new situation because of the pigs."

"What do you need a porlock for?" Harry sat down on Ginny's other side. "Because of the horses? Were you going to get a porlock for Mr. Allsop?"

"Did they tell you everything that happened?"

"Yeah," said Ginny. "It was pretty vicious."

"Well, it's not the first time. It doesn't happen often, but it shouldn't ever happen. We don't expect that bunch to come back soon because of all the police activity, but you never know with crazy people. They might consider it a challenge. It would be nice if we could locate a porlock soon."

"Do you mean today?" Harry was getting hot under the collar, and not from weather or exercise. "Do you honestly think you can just waltz into whatever we're doing and order us about? We have plans. We were having a picnic."

"Which you've finished," said Snape, "and one part of the canal is very much like every other part of the canal. I was offering you a change of scenery. Variety is a wonderful thing, and I understand Dorset is lovely this time of year."

"Have you eaten?" Ginny asked. "We do have a little food left and…"

"Don't encourage him! You feed him and he's likely to follow us home."

"Potter, you will not talk about me as if I were a stray dog."

"Oh yeah? Try and stop me!"

Ginny laid a hand on the sleeve of each young man. "The two of you are going to stop bickering, or I'm leaving." She turned to Snape. "I'm serious. Have you eaten, or are you hungry?"

"I had lunch at the hotel restaurant with three charming ladies, who enlightened me as to a number of things I'd never known before."

"Such as…?" Harry was suddenly curious rather than angry.

"My mother went to school in the village before going to Hogwarts. Everyone knew they were witches, and she even did little things with magic for them. No wonder she fit so well into a muggle community later on. It was just normal for her."

"How could she do that?" Ginny asked. "Wouldn't the Ministry know about it and stop it? The magic, I mean."

"I don't know. Certainly they register it now because our dear Miss Perks has noticed my actions, meager as they are." Snape thought for a moment. "No. No explanation comes to mind. We'll just have to log it as another mystery about the village and hope that with time we'll discover the answer."

The three were silent for a few minutes, watching the slowly drifting water of the canal and the clouds overhead. Then Harry cleared his throat. "What else did you learn about your mum?" he asked.

"That she divided the world into east Lancashire and everybody else instead of wizards and muggles. That must have been why she was always so strict with me about using magic on the non-magical, that it wasn't fair. She saw them as 'her people,' and the wizarding world as the 'outsiders.'"

"It must be nice having people around who remember your mother." Harry sighed. Ginny looked wistful.

"_I_ remember your mother," said Snape. "At least, I would remember her if I hadn't put all those memories into that green bottle."

"What do you remember most about her?" Harry asked. It was, he hoped, the point he'd been working towards ever since he discovered Snape's memories leaking out of Hermione's temporary flask back in January.

"I told you," Snape plucked a long blade of grass and leaned back on the knoll, the grass between his teeth. "I don't 'remember' anything. It's all in the bottle."

Harry's immediate desire was to get on his bicycle, ride to Snape's cottage, and steal the bottle. He restrained himself. He changed the question. "What do you know about her?"

Snape contemplated the clouds. "Her birthday," he said after a moment. Then, before Harry could explode, he added, "and the fact that she always remembered mine. Nobody else did."

"Really?" Harry lowered his voice. "They never remembered my birthday either. Well, no. They remembered it, but they gave me things like a pair of used socks one year and fifty-p the next."

Snape sat bolt upright. "That fat jackass Petunia married wouldn't cough up the money for an actual birthday present? What a tightwad!"

"You know, Professor, this sudden habit you've acquired of peppering your comments with crude slang…"

"Don't interrupt, Miss Weasley. I shall slang whenever and wherever I want to. At least my parents had a reason. My birthday came too soon after Christmas. They couldn't afford to celebrate both, so they chose Christmas and celebrated no one's birthday." Snape stopped suddenly, aware that his cheeks were reddening. "Not with wrapped gifts, at any rate," he finished lamely.

"What else, then?" Ginny demanded, and when Snape shook his head in denial she began to wheedle. "Come on. You can't fob us off with half a story. What other kind of gifts are there?"

"If you must know," Snape sighed, "my mum always packed me off to Mrs. Hanson's on my dad's birthday so they could have some time alone together, a working-class cottage not being a terribly private place. I was grown up and they were dead before I finally figured out what had been going on. Of course, dad's birthday was Guy Fawkes Day, and I thought going to Mrs. Hanson's after the bonfire was just part of the festivities."

"Ohh," Ginny sighed. "That's so romantic."

"D' y' think so? I would fancy Mallorca myself, or a hotel on the Grand Canal in Venice, but when you have no money…" Snape lay back again to watch the clouds, clouds like fluffy sheep hiding the despair of evicted farmers behind a deceptive vignette of pastoral gentleness.

"Money," Harry announced, "is not what it's cracked up to be. People with money can still neglect you."

"Really?" Snape turned on his side to face Harry, his head propped on one hand. "They ever beat you?"

The memory that leaped into Harry's mind wasn't from the flask. It was from his fifth year occlumency lessons. The image of the violent man, the cowering woman, and the small child whimpering in a corner… "No," he said. "Dudley and his friends beat me up a couple of times, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never touched me."

"Lucky you," said Snape.

"Look," said Ginny, not at all liking the direction the conversation was taking, "are we going to go looking for a porlock or not? Because this conversation is going nowhere. It's like you're trying to establish bragging rights on who was most miserable as a child. You may think it's fun, but I'm bored. Let's go to Dorset."

"Have you," Snape said, addressing Ginny and changing the subject, "ever actually seen a porlock?"

"Not really. Actually… No."

"Do they talk? Could we engage one in conversation?"

"I don't think so."

"Then we have a problem. I used to know someone who could communicate mentally with non-human species. I'd like to bring him in on this."

Harry barked a sharp laugh. "Someone else in on the secret? Pretty soon all wizarding Britain is going to know who you are and where you're living."

"I would trust Paul Hooper a lot further than I would trust you, Potter." Snape turned to Ginny. "He was a lot like Fred and George. The first stunt he pulled, at the age of eleven, was sneaking a previously unknown goat into Greenhouse Three. Have you ever tried to get a goat out of a greenhouse?"

Ginny shook her head, laughing. "I would like to meet this Paul Hooper," she said. "If he's good, I'd like George to meet this Paul Hooper."

"No." Snape put down the proverbial foot. "No Paul and George. I had enough trouble with just Paul. Putting him together with George… The world isn't ready for it."

Snape led the way, apparating to a spot off a country road a little ways out from King's Lynn. "This could be tricky," he told Harry and Ginny when they joined him. "Hooper's father was an auror – and a Gryffindor – he never liked me very much. I got the feeling he considered it my fault his son was sorted into Slytherin. I lost track of Hooper after…"

"I think his father's still an auror," Harry said. "The name's familiar."

"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I lost track of him after he left Hogwarts in 1990. He'd be about twenty-seven now and probably not living with his…"

"Magical Creatures!" Harry cried in sudden enlightenment. "There's a Hooper there who can work wonders with animals. Nobody knows how, but he's a genius. Are you telling me he's an animal legilimens? No way!"

"You interrupt me one more time, Potter, and I shall transform you into a horsehair blanket as punishment, and because I am, as McGonagall never ceases to remind me, not particularly good at transfiguration, when you return to your true form, you will have lost half your hair."

"Sorry, sir."

Snape regarded Harry speculatively. "Do you have access to personnel files? If Hooper's working for the Ministry, you might be able to get his address there."

"It's Sunday, so there's a skeleton staff," said Harry, "but I can try." He stepped away from the other two, twisted, and disapparated with a resounding 'Pop!'

"I hate to admit it," Snape confided to Ginny, "but it may actually be useful having him work for the Ministry. Sort of like having a spy in the enemy camp. It gives one a certain sense of power. I wonder if this is how Dumbledore felt about me."

Ginny shook her head. "Harry's not going to be tortured and killed if he's discovered passing you information."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I think it probably affected the way Professor Dumbledore felt about you," Ginny said. "There was a lot more at stake."

"You have a glorified opinion of Dumbledore," Snape retorted, turning to walk farther away from the road and incidentally from Ginny as well. "There wasn't a lot of sentiment there. I was a tool. If he'd lost me, he'd have been primarily concerned about the bother of finding a replacement. That's the 'spilled milk' concept of warfare."

"Come again?" Ginny hurried to catch up to him.

"Not worth crying over." Finding a spot with a bit of rock jutting out of the soil, Snape sat down to wait. There was enough space on the rock for two, so Ginny sat next to him. After a moment Snape got up and moved away from the rock, his hands fidgeting nervously.

"What's wrong?" Ginny asked.

"Memory I forgot to lock up," said Snape. "Not to worry. Just an old superstition about rocks and redheads. It will be gone as soon as I get home."

"You can't hide all your memories away," Ginny admonished him. "Your memory is who you are. You're locking yourself up in that flask."

"What is keeping Potter? Shouldn't he have found it by now?"

"The Ministry's a big place. Or have you decided not to remember that one either?"

"For your information, Miss Weasley, I have been to the Ministry on more than one occasion. Each time, I was either locked in a cage or forced to talk to a judge. I nonetheless have some idea of its size. I say Potter should have located the information by now and…"

A scream from overhead interrupted him this time, and Snape and Ginny both looked up. Two birds flew above them, two falcons. Snape began waving his arms wildly, then cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound. "Randir!" he shouted. "Randir, get Paul! Tell him Professor Snape is here!"

Ginny rose from the rock. "Isn't that being a bit silly, yelling at a hawk like that? It's almost like you expect…" She stopped. The larger of the two birds was racing east, the smaller one in its wake, and the falcon was _screeing_ as it flew, crying a message to something, or someone, in front of it. Ginny turned to Snape. "Did you really know that bird?"

"Maybe," said Snape. "He'd be about sixteen years old now, if it is him, so I'm surprised he's still alive. They're like owls, you know… peregrines. Intelligent birds, eminently trainable."

Back closer to the road there was a distinctive 'pop' that announced Harry's return. "We're in luck," he called as he strode toward them. "Hooper still lives in the neighborhood."

That information was rendered obsolete almost immediately, however, as another 'pop' signaled another apparator. "My," said a voice used to sarcasm, "and here I was afraid Randir was getting senile. I thought you were supposed to be dead. Have you shrunk?"

"It's good to see you, too, Hooper," said Snape.

"Seriously," said Hooper, who was himself tall, blond, and rather good-looking in an impish sort of way, "you're smaller. Not shorter, but smaller. Younger, too, but that I expected."

"You knew?" Snape allowed his surprise to show.

"It was in all the papers. 'Is the cloned body with the pensieve brain a human being or not?' I followed the story passionately and was devastated when you killed yourself," though Hooper's voice did not sound devastated. "I should have known you'd find a way to weasel out of a bad situation."

"Watch it," said Ginny ominously.

"Pardon?" Hooper gazed at her blandly, then registered the presence of Harry. "Potter? Auror intern Potter? One of you is in rarified company. Guess which one." He turned back to Ginny. "Have I in some way offended? It was not my intention."

Snape did the honors. "Ginny Weasley, Paul Hooper. I take it you and Potter rather know each other already."

"Weasley? Ah, yes. Sorry about the reference to the otter family. There's an Arthur Weasley in Muggle Artifacts… his daughter? Pleased to meet you." He and Ginny shook hands. There was one of those awkward pauses.

Hooper cleared his throat. "I say," he began, only to be interrupted by Snape.

"_I say_? What's this rot? Are you about to call me 'old chap'? What happened to you? You've become Ministrified!"

Hooper laughed. "And what if I have?" he challenged Snape. "Do you realize I'm now as old as you were when I was in fifth year? That was ten years ago. How old are you now, anyway?"

Harry answered. "The mind is thirty-eight. The body appears seventeen. Chronologically he should be thirty-nine, but there was that little business about dying in the middle of it. He's having identity problems. Split personality, if you get my meaning."

"Not really," said Hooper, "but it sounds par for the course. Did you come here looking for me?"

"We've got a job for you," Snape told him. "It's interesting and satisfying, but the pay's lousy."

"In other words, it's _pro bono._ Why should I expect anything different? I'm living just down the lane, and it's nearly tea time. Why don't the three of you come along for tea? We can talk about it." Hooper led the way to a small lane that wound its way between trees and hedges. En route he dropped the next bombshell. "Now don't have a fit or anything, but I'm married and have two daughters. I'm telling you now because I know how poorly you adapt to change."

Snape had already stopped dead in his tracks. "Married! You have no business being married!"

"Merlin! You are still the control freak you always were. I'm twenty-seven. I've been of age for ten years. I got married when I was twenty-two. Caroline is four, and Margaret is two. Mrs. Hooper is the former Anastasia Burke. Remember her? She was a year behind me… in Hufflepuff. Do you need CPR, Professor? I can't help, but there's a fire brigade in King's Lynn."

"I… no… you…," Snape spluttered. Then, _"You're not supposed to get older!_ You're not supposed to change! How can I get used to things if they're constantly changing!" He stopped suddenly, the strange, sweetish smell in his nostrils. "Potter," he said quietly. "You haven't by any chance brought a pensieve, have you?"

"Is he all right?" Hooper said. Ginny was already helping Snape sit down on the grass.

"Do you have a pensieve?" Harry asked. "Because if you don't, I'm getting one now. Any locks on the door I should know about, Professor?" Snape shook his head, and Harry disapparated. He was back a minute later with the pensieve from Snape's front room. "It's all right," he told Snape. "It's all under control. You're sitting down, the pensieve is right here, nothing bad can happen."

"Lie down;" said Snape, "I should lie down."

Thus it was that this time the pensieve mentality slid from its body directly into the pensieve, not touching the ground on the way. The body lay peacefully asleep. Pensieve Snape was not peaceful.

"What are you trying to do to me?" the five inch tall mannikin demanded, materializing at once on the surface of the bowl. "I work myself to the bone trying to adapt to circumstances that would try a saint, and you keep throwing curve balls at me!"

"What's a curve ball?" Ginny asked.

Harry was the one who replied. "It's a ball that starts out straight, then fools the batter by curving. It's from American baseball."

"How would you know?" Snape demanded.

"From the Olympics," Harry explained. "In 1988, 1992, and 1996. Uncle Vernon always watched the Olympics. Baseball's an Olympic game." He glanced at the expression on Hooper's face. "My mum was muggle-born. Uncle Vernon's on the muggle side of the family."

"More the troll side of the family," said pensieve Snape.

Harry settled onto the grass next to the pensieve. "Explain something to me," he said to pensieve Snape. "After you entered this body, you were at the Ministry for several weeks waiting for your hearing, and then you were at the new home for a couple of months after your 'accident.' How come you didn't do any splinching until July? I mean, if the body was going to reject you, why didn't it do so immediately? Why the delay? And if something else is causing the splinching, what have you done differently since about the beginning of July that you didn't do before?"

Snape glared at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.

"There!" cried Ginny. "You know! You know what's happening because if you didn't, you'd be giving us instructions on how to solve the problem. But you don't have to solve the problem because you already know the answer, and you don't like what the answer is, so you won't tell us."

"Let me guess," said Snape snidely. "You're studying psychology from the Peeler's wife."

"Look," Hooper said, settling in his turn on the opposite side of the pensieve from Harry, "I have no idea what they're talking about except that you've done this before and it isn't voluntary. But I'd have to agree with Miss Weasley…"

"Call me Ginny," said Ginny.

"With Ginny. And you can call me Paul. I've watched you – how many times? – on a trail like a bloodhound, and I've never known you yet to walk away from a mystery. If you're not investigating, it's because you already have the answer."

"So," Harry took up the train of reasoning, "spill. What's causing this?" When Snape refused to speak, Harry smiled. "It's the memories, isn't it? Those memories you don't want to look at. You started putting them in the flask, and when it reached some kind of critical mass, you lost control of the body. There isn't enough of _you_ in you to keep _you_ inside."

"This is neat," said Paul. "Can I have a look? I mean, if there's no personality in there, just memories, it might be close enough to an animal so that I could…"

"I am not close to being an animal!" Snape shrieked, his tiny frame and voice considerably diminishing the impact of his anger. "I forbid…!"

"Go ahead," said Harry, "be my guest."

Ignoring pensieve Snape's protestations, Paul leaned over the supine body and raised its eyelids. He gazed into the unconscious eyes for a moment, then lowered the lids again. "You have the wand, you know," he said. "It's up your sleeve. It was practically the last thing you were thinking about when…

"Why, so I do!" Snape exclaimed, drawing the wand out and into his right hand. "Maybe I can just put myself back."

"How?" Harry asked. "You never could before."

"I could move around!"

"That's because you were living in the flask, and it made you stronger. Now you can't live in the flask because that's where all the memories you want to avoid are." Harry turned to Hooper. "What did you see?"

"Yes," said Snape, equally curious. "What did you see?"

Paul shrugged. "A lot of the usual stuff. Lungs, heart, stomach… Animal brains devote a lot of space to the mechanics of living. And then there were the… eh, I guess you would call them memories… except they weren't connected to anything, so I couldn't use them. The wand one was just the nearest, so I guessed it was the most recent."

"You're going to have to explain that," said Ginny. "If they aren't memories, what are they?"

"In an animal, it would be past experience that triggers an expectation of an immediate similar experience. It's not the same as human memory because most of the time it isn't voluntary. External sensory stimulation triggers a recall of the experience, which triggers the expectation. Even at that point it doesn't function exactly the way human memory does."

Neither Harry nor Ginny knew how to respond to this, but pensieve Snape did. "So an animal needs a sensory trigger? Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I'm a hamster in a cage with a little treadmill wheel for exercise. Every evening you come home from work to feed me."

"Right," said Paul. "The hamster hears me open the door. That sound has always led to a sequence of events terminating in food. The hamster becomes excited, anticipating the familiar sequence initiated by the sound of the door. Until it hears the door, however, it doesn't remember that I'm coming home to feed it.

"Let's use the example of hunting. Human hunters, sitting around their campfire, can voluntarily recall a spot where the hunting was good, and can plan in advance the route that will take them back to that spot. Once there, they know that the appearance of game is random – it may, or it may not happen. A hungry wolf prowls until it stumbles across a scent or a visual key that says, 'I caught food near here once before.' When it reaches the spot, it thinks, 'Now is when the rabbit comes out and I get to eat.' One can argue that the ultimate effect is the same, but the mental process used to arrive at that point is different.

"Of course, some animals are more advanced. A horse, for example, has memory closer to that of a human than to that of a giant squid."

"So how," pensieve Snape inquired, "does this affect me? My memories are human, they're voluntary, and I don't expect the same sequence of events to occur. This isn't related to me at all."

"It wouldn't be," Paul explained, "except you extracted the human mind from the equation. You, the mind, are here in the pensieve which, let me tell you, gives me a creepy feeling. There's no human mind over there to put order into the experiences or give them an external significance. And the experiences have unnatural gaps. They don't hook together the way they would in even an animal brain. I mean, this goes way beyond involuntary sequencing. In places there isn't any sequencing at all."

"You can't know that," Snape insisted. "You can't possibly know that. You weren't in there long enough to see all that."

"I didn't have to be. In addition to an odd, general incoherence, there are washed out roads. You follow one line of memories, and everything's fine. All the links to the chain are there. You get into others, and the instant you run into a place where a link ought to be but isn't… bridge down, road closed."

"So," laughed Harry, "in the memory starved mind, the hamster gets no information from the opening door because one of the linking events is missing. There you go, Professor. You caused it yourself."

Pensieve Snape pouted. "That still doesn't explain why I splinch. And are you going to leave that thing lying here all afternoon? It might attract attention, and I'm sure you don't want that."

Paul stood up. "Come on, Professor, I'll take you home. Then the lot of you can fill me in on how and why this is happening."

They, or rather Paul, conjured a stretcher and put Snape onto it. The house, quite a nice, well-appointed, spacious place with a country garden in the front and vegetables and herbs in the back, was less than half a mile distant. The two falcons sat on perches by the front door.

"Stacie," Paul called to a pug-nosed, freckle-faced woman who came to the door to meet them, "company for tea. I hope that's all right."

"The more the merrier," said Anastasia with a smile that quickly turned into a small frown. "Is your friend all right? Will you need a healer? Oh! My! He looks remarkably like Professor Snape might have looked as a student."

"An excellent observation, my dear. Let's go in, sit down over a cuppa, and we'll explain."

Anastasia had, of course, seen them coming and had whipped up plates of little cress sandwiches and egg salad sandwiches, and cucumber sandwiches, and scones, as well as a couple more pots of tea. Snape, pensieve Snape, was momentarily not in evidence so as not to prematurely and unnecessarily distress Mrs. Hooper. He lay curled in the pensieve, which Harry covered with a table napkin as a precaution.

"So," said Anastasia when all had been related and explained, both to her and to Paul, "he didn't kill himself after all. That's a mercy." She looked quite the picture of maternal affection, with Carrie snuggled beside her and Peggy on her lap.

"Is he asleep, Mommy?" asked Carrie. "'Cause I can wake him up if you like."

"How would you do that, dear?" her mother asked.

"With the tickly feaver, like I do for Daddy," replied the child gravely. "It always wakes him up."

A voice laden with irritation came from under the napkin. "Let me out of here! From the sound of it, there's a munchkin who's going to shove a feather up my nose. If that midget Torquemada even gets close… Potter, take this thing off!"

Harry removed the napkin from the pensieve, and immediately Snape's presence floated on the surface of the basin. "You keep her away from me…"

"Oh! That one's older! He looks just like he did when we were in school."

"Mommy, look at the dolly! He looks like my picture book with King Arfur!" Carrie slid off the sofa and hurried to Harry's chair, on the arm of which the pensieve was balanced. "Hello, dolly," she said, her face practically touching the basin.

"Young lady," said Snape sternly. "I am not King Arthur, and I am not a doll. I am a person, a man."

"No." Carrie shook her head, emphatically aware of the faultlessness of her logic. "You're too small. My kitty is bigger than you."

Paul laughed. "She's got you there, Professor. You didn't pass the kitty test, a test you'd have been prepared for if you'd ever been a daddy yourself." He stopped in amazement, the light of revelation shining in his face. "You splinched when you were upset about me changing, marrying, and having children. You made an involuntary mental jump to someone else who changed, married, and had children, but the memory you were jumping to wasn't there. Poof! Splinchville."

"Is that right, Professor?" exclaimed Ginny. "Did you splinch because he reminded you of Harry's mum, but you'd put the memory in the bottle, so you were jumping into nothingness?"

"I don't remember," Snape said primly.

"I wish you'd stop saying that!" Harry shouted at him, halfway between mirth and frustration.

Armed with this new insight, Paul became bold. "I'm going to have another look," he said, rising. At the same time, Anastasia took her children out of the room. She sensed an 'adult' moment coming on.

""No, you're not!" Snape blurted out. "That's a violation of my privacy! I forbid you!"

Paul paused. "I'm trying to help." There was a note of exasperation in his voice.

"No you aren't, you're peeping. They're going to name a whole new class of misdemeanors after you. All the Peeping Tom laws will be superseded by Peeping Paul laws."

"Fine," said Paul. "Then I'm not going to help you."

"Who said I needed your help?"

"You're here, aren't you? Neither of them," Paul gestured towards Harry and Ginny, "knows about me or where I live. So it's got to be you. And you never come looking for me unless you want a favor, help on a job. Well, you're not getting it."

Ginny leaned close to the pensieve. "We're here for porlocks, remem…"

"No," Harry cut in. "Don't say the 'R' word. Professor, do you _know_ why we're here?"

"Of course I know! Fred Allsop's horses need a porlock and Hooper here…" pensieve Snape stopped, his eyes narrowing into an angry glare. "You wouldn't leave a plain, honest man's horses unprotected out of spite, would you? An unworthy action if ever I heard of one. I thought you were better than that."

"Were you going to reimburse me for time and effort?"

"Mercenary, too! Will wonders never cease?"

"The laborer is worthy of his hire. I peep into that brain, or you find a porlock on your own."

"You don't even know what a porlock is!"

"Potter, would you remind the professor where I work. Not only do I know what a porlock is, I am currently investigating the impact on the porlock population of the destruction of their natural habitat…"

"Aha!" Snape cried. "So _we're_ helping _you!"_

"I've been assigned to study the problem, not solve it. Helping you would distort the data."

"You rat!" Snape shrieked. "You manipulative rat!"

"I confess," Paul admitted, "to having studied under a master."

Harry, too, was experiencing a 'moment' of enlightenment. "You told me it was Professor Dumbledore and my mother who were manipulative. I admit they probably were – I've seen the memories – but it appears _you_ weren't innocent either."

Snape folded his arms across his chest. "Maybe because I studied under a couple of masters, too."

"What we have," said Ginny calmly, "are two separate problems. First is the matter of involuntary mental splinching. That's got to be scary. What if it was a real splinch – it happened while you were apparating? Your body would show up in one spot while your brain was spread out in a thin mist over several miles. We couldn't even begin to know where to start looking. I'd think any information that would prevent that from happening would be welcome. The second problem is Mr. Allsop's horses. The two aren't connected."

"Right," Snape added. "And anyone who tried to connect them would be a scoundrel."

"Be polite," Ginny admonished.

"Polite? He's trying to blackmail me!"

"If he was really blackmailing you, he'd be threatening to turn you over to the Ministry – tell them where you are. I don't hear him doing that."

Nobody spoke while the tiny figure in the basin contemplated the matter from this new angle. After a couple of minutes, pensieve Snape cleared his throat. "Hooper… I…"

"Sir," said Paul, "I would never turn you over to the Ministry. No matter what you decided about the reading thing. Never."

There was another minute of silence. Then, "That's… very decent of you. I suppose it would be nice not to have to worry about this splinching business. I… suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a little look around. You have… I'm not going to stop you."

"Thank you, sir," Paul said respectfully. "I'll try not to probe too deeply."

Instead of answering, Snape vanished from the surface of the pensieve. Paul stepped beside it to look at the little glob of silver mist in the bottom of the basin. "That's kind of sad," he said, then turned to the unconscious body and again looked into its eyes.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, his occlumency lessons having given him some idea of what was happening. Paul had established a rhythm of opening and closing Snape's eyelids to simulate blinking in order to keep the eyes from dehydrating. Harry was pretty sure he would never have thought to do that.

"It's similar to legilimency," Paul explained. "At least that's what I understand. I'm not a legilimens; I can't do this with people. Usually I present images to elicit responses. I try to show what I want, and I try to see the animal's response. I suspect I can do this now because the part of the mind with the human will is in the pensieve. Unfortunately, that doesn't leave a conscious mind capable of responding, so I'm trying to latch on to free floating things to see if they lead me to other thoughts."

.Harry was silent for a few minutes, then spoke up again. "There must be millions of memories."

It was a moment before Paul replied. "Yes, but not as many as you'd think. The short-term memory stuff – a lot of that's gone, or at least no more accessible to me than it would be to him. And routine things, the same thing over and over, day after day or week after week, that's hard to call up. Basically, if you can't consciously remember it, I can't get it. I don't think any legilimens could."

"Professor Dumbledore got memories from people who'd been Obliviated."

"Really? I imagine he first treated the spell, and then went for the memory. Oops! There's one."

"One that leads to another one?"

"No, one that doesn't, but should. It's very recent. It's you," Paul nodded to Ginny, "sitting on a rock. It's trying to connect, but it can't."

"Redheads and rocks," said Ginny. "That's what he said, and it upset him. It must be your mother, Harry. Another memory of her that he put into that bottle."

"What was your mother's name, Potter?"

"Lily Evans."

"Lilies and redheads. Let's see what we get." It was several more minutes before Paul gave a satisfied grunt. "Bingo," he said. "Hogwarts. Very young Snape and equally young redheaded Gryffindor exchange glances in the entrance hall, then go separately to one of the courtyards to talk while everyone else is stuffing their faces with food. Nice signaling."

"That's the first one," Harry said. "The first memory I saw where he – the personality – was also there. That's where this whole thing got started. He wanted to know what I was doing inside his memory. He didn't know it was in a pensieve."

"He must feel comfortable with this one if he didn't try to get rid of it. You said earlier that he felt manipulated by your mother and Professor Dumbledore. I'm going to try to get memories of Dumbledore."

This search took no time at all. "Whoa!" cried Paul, backing quickly away from his contact. "Didn't expect that."

"What?" Harry and Ginny asked simultaneously. Harry, at this point, would have given anything to be seeing what Paul was seeing.

"You-Know-Who," said Paul. "I'm asking for Dumbledore, and I get You-Know-Who. Moldyvort, Uncle Alastor used to call him. That last scene had to be an interrogation. And every one slips over to the same scene with Dumbledore. It's scary, like something out of a nightmare. It's this wild storm at night, and Dumbledore's asking Professor Snape what he's willing to do, and Snape says…"

"Anything," Harry finished for him. "He'd do anything. He'd walk right back into that viper's nest, face torture and death, if Dumbledore would protect my mum. I'd almost forgotten that one. I remember thinking the first time I saw it what a cruel, manipulative person Professor Dumbledore could be. I wonder why he kept that one."

"So he could wallow in misery?" Paul pondered for a moment. "You know, this is out of my league. I like the professor, and I'd do anything to help him, but he needs healers. People who know what they're doing. We did a lot together, he and I, and some day I may tell you some of it, but I never would have guessed he was carrying around the stuff I saw today. He hid it pretty well."

"Behind the doors," said Harry.

"What doors?"

"Another long story. So what do we do now?"

"We do what he wants to do," Ginny told them. "We help Mr. Allsop and his horses. We solve that problem so he can concentrate fully on this one with a clear conscience. We go to Dorset and find a porlock."

"Right," Harry declared. Going to the pensieve, he said, "Professor? It's over. We found out what we needed to know."

Snape materialized immediately on top of the basin. "It's about time," he snapped. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me entirely."

"Forget you," laughed Paul. "Not in a million years."

"We think we have some more information," Harry told Snape, so I'd like to see how much Hermione has found out about this whole brain thing."

"Hermione?" Snape looked puzzled. "Oh, right. I asked her to check. She's had a week. She must have something."

"Now," said Ginny, "let's put you back so we can go to Dorset."

"I don't think so," said pensieve Snape. "I'd rather not."

"Come on," Harry coaxed, his wand in hand, "you apparated here without splinching."

"I apparated here and almost immediately splinched. I'm in splinch mode. I don't want to end up feeding fish in the Thames."

"You could sidealong with one of us."

"The less experienced the apparator, the more danger of splinching, especially sidealong."

"Are you planning on walking to Dorset? Not to mention back to Lancashire.""

Ginny had another idea. "Harry, why can't his body just rest here, and you carry the pensieve when you apparate. We could wrap it up to be sure he didn't spill out."

Paul was chuckling. "I love this conversation," he said. "Don't worry, Professor, we won't spill you." He went upstairs to tell Anastasia he'd be back shortly, then rejoined the others in the sitting room. "I actually know a place where there were a couple of porlocks. Now the pasture has been turned over to free range pig farming…"

"See," said Ginny. "I told you so."

"…and at least one of the porlocks has disappeared. So I can go first, and you can follow my trail. Sunday evening should be very quiet, but be prepared to pop right back if someone's there." He went out into the front garden and disapparated.

Snape had already turned into a mist, and Ginny had lent her sweater to cover the pensieve with. Holding the basin carefully, Harry followed Paul, and then a moment later, giving the others time to move aside from the target spot, Ginny left in her turn. They were on an open, sloped field dotted at intervals with little houses like dog houses, except they were pig houses. Troughs were set up at strategic points, troughs which were the gathering place for dozens of trim, healthy looking pigs who trotted around in an almost dog-like way.

"What are those?" Snape asked, emerging from the sweater.

"Pigs," said Paul.

"No, they're not," Snape insisted. "Pigs are big and fat and pink, and they waddle on little short legs. These pigs are hairy."

"Excuse me!" Harry exploded. "I think I'm going to drop you."

"He means they have hair," Ginny explained. "These pigs are happier. They also taste better. Now, where's the porlock?"

Paul pointed north. "Just over the rise there's a barn and stables. We're still finding traces of the porlock there, though we haven't seen it for about three months. It's probably the best place to start."

"What are you going to do?"

"Project images of horses. I've never tried it before because we've just been studying them, and you don't want to get a porlock's hopes up if you're not going to follow through."

Paul led the way, and the little procession of wizards attracted considerable attention from the pigs who, having eaten, were now free to notice things besides food. A couple of them even followed to investigate, pigs having rather curious minds.

It took but a second to open the unused stable and go in. Paul started checking the stalls. "We're looking for a place where the straw has been gathered into a little nest," he told the others. "A porlock makes a new one every morning. Since there aren't any horses here, it could be in a stall or anyplace else in the building."

Harry set the pensieve down so he could hunt porlock nests, and he and Ginny took the right side of the stable while Paul searched the left. They'd gotten about halfway through when pensieve Snape began screeching in panic. "Potter! Hooper! Get this thing out of here! It's attacking me! Get away you filthy –"

The three dashed for the entrance to find a young pig had pushed his way into the stable after them and was now cheerfully licking the pensieve as if it were a bowl of the pig's favorite treats. "Shoo!" Ginny screamed waving her sweater in the pig's face. "Get away from that!"

"Don't let it get out of the stable!" Paul warned. "We want to know which pig it was just in case…"

"You don't think…?" Harry gasped staring down at the pensieve. It was empty.

"You never know with pigs," said Paul, shaking his head. Together the three managed to corral the pig in one of the stalls.

"Professor!" Ginny was calling. "Professor, where are you?"

"Over here, you silly girl," came Snape's voice from the nearest stall. "You don't think I was going to stay in that thing and get drooled on, do you?"

"Where are you? I can't see you." Behind Ginny, Harry and Paul had come to look.

"I'm under the straw. It's higher than I am tall. Be careful!" Snape shouted as Ginny started to brush the straw away. "It may still be possible to disperse me, like a fog."

Harry picked up the pensieve. "Here, let me put you back in this."

"Are you out of your mind!" The still unseen Snape yelped back. "That thing is full of pig slobber! I'm never going back in there. You'll have to get a new pensieve."

"I can clean it out with a Scourgify spell..."

"No. I hate Scourgify spells, and you know perfectly well why. Besides, no spell is going to remove the memory of that animal's tongue…"

Paul crouched down, peering into the straw. "I thought you couldn't remember anything when you were in this form," he said. "Can you?"

There was silence. Snape's voice had returned to a normal timbre when he replied. "If I experience it here, in this form, it's sort of like a memory. Not as vivid as a true memory, but there. Do you think that's important?"

"I don't know," said Paul. "Maybe. How are we going to get you back if we can't carry you in the pensieve?"

"I've carried him in my head a couple of times," Harry offered. "I suppose I could do it again."

"Yuk," came Snape's voice from the straw. "An adolescent brain seething with hormones. Joy."

"Better him than me," said Paul, and he returned to his search for the porlock's nest, first letting the pig out of the stall and chasing it from the stable. A moment later he said, "Here it is. Fresh this morning. Give us a mo'…"

The results of Paul's mental projection were immediate and astounding. There was a sound like a very tiny horse neighing, and then a little creature jumped down from the rafters. Ginny and Harry jumped back, while Paul maintained his position. He did crouch down again, for the porlock was only about two feet tall, and Paul wanted to communicate on its level.

The porlock bore a strong resemblance to a miniature faun. It had shaggy hair, mostly on its head and legs, and walked upright on cloven-hoofed goatlike feet. Its torso was more human looking, though its small hands at the ends of short arms had only four fingers, rather like cartoon characters Harry had watched on television as a child. It stood in front of Paul gazing at him with great liquid brown eyes, clearly lonely and pining for its vanished horses. As the two exchanged images, the porlock first bleated like a goat, then nickered like a mare to her foal, and finally began a nervous little dance in the straw.

"Well," said Harry. "Will it go with us?"

"It's trying to decide. It's never been this close to people before. It doesn't know whether to trust us or not, but it wants the horses."

"Does it have things it needs to take with it?" Ginny asked. "You know, possessions?"

Paul shook his head. "It's an animal," he reminded her. "It doesn't real understand the concept of possessing anything. It's depressed because it doesn't know where the horses went, and it doesn't know where to go. It's kind of young. I think the one that left was older."

The porlock seemed to have made up its mind because it moved closer to Paul. Paul began showing it how they were going to travel, another concept the porlock did not understand. Luckily it would last only a moment and would then be over.

"Come on, Professor," Harry called. "It looks like we're leaving."

"Use your wand," Snape advised him.

"Oh, right," said Harry. _"Accio Snape!"_ The mist shot to the wand tip, and Harry placed it in his own head. "Just follow me," he told Paul. "I've been there before." He stepped to the other side of the stable so as to disturb the porlock as little as possible and disapparated. Paul rose, reached down to pick up the porlock, walked to the same spot, and also disapparated, Ginny close behind.

They arrived in the yard between Fred Allsop's barn and the paddock. Allsop, having heard Harry's arrival, was coming out of the house. He paused when he realized what Paul was carrying. The porlock didn't even notice him. It caught the scent of the horses and wriggled from Paul's grasp, bleating and nickering excitedly. Trotting to the barn door, it disappeared inside.

Allsop joined them, looking a bit skeptical. "Potter," he greeted them with a nod. "Miss Weasley." He extended a hand to Paul. "Name's Allsop," he said. "Fred Allsop, and those are my horses."

"Paul Hooper," said Paul, shaking hands. The others hadn't actually talked about the details, but they had let him know the horse owner was a muggle. Now it occurred to him to consider that the muggle knew what he was. The man certainly did not seem surprised to see three wizards materialize in his yard.

"Young Mr. Snape's not with you?" Allsop continued, addressing Paul as the eldest of the three. "I'd have thought he'd be here. Was that the… guard creature? He didn't wait around to be introduced, did he?"

"He's an animal, sir. Think of him as a guard dog. He doesn't understand introductions. Did… Mr. Snape explain to you the needs and characteristics of this animal?"

"No, he didn't. Truth be told, I didn't expect it to get here this soon. Mind if I check on my horses?"

"It would be best if you did." Paul fell in beside Allsop as they walked to the barn. "This attack against your animals, it happened…"

"Last night. About sixteen hours ago. They hurt the foal bad. Luckily Mr. Snape was near. That's what saved him." Allsop pushed open the barn door. Paul grabbed his arm and pulled him back just as a pitchfork dove into the earthen floor where the man had been standing.

"That thing attacked me!" Allsop roared as Paul restrained him.

Paul tried to calm the irate man. "He knows the horses were injured." Even as he spoke the sound of Daisy's whinnying and the thud of her hooves against the boards of her stall echoed through the barn. "He doesn't yet know your relationship to them. You may have been the attacker."

"That's rubbish. Why would I attack my own horses?"

"Let him know that."

"Daisy, girl," Allsop called. "You all right, lass?" The mare nickered to him. Allsop stepped forward around the pitchfork and strode to Daisy's stall. "They brought you a companion, girl," he said, stroking the broad face she offered to him over the stall door. "He's going to help me look after you." Daisy nuzzled him, teasing him into fishing a lump of carrot from his pocket to give to her. "I know you're inside for the night, but let's have one more romp for the new boy to see, all right?"

He opened the stalls and released the horses back into the yard. The foal in particular seemed to relish this extra bit of freedom, and played a game with Allsop, running in to butt him with its head, and then scampering away around the paddock. The horses were relaxed, affectionate, and at ease with the man.

Out in the yard, Paul approached Allsop. "Don't move," he murmured, "but glance to your right." The porlock was peeping around the barn door at the frolicking horses, its fawnlike ears pricked forward in concentration.

"What does it eat?" Allsop asked quietly.

"Grass. Like the horses. If they have a good water supply, it'll drink from that. That's all it needs. It'll clean up after itself. They're very neat."

"Will it eat hay?"

"If it has to. Usually in the winter they eat the dead grass. They'll paw through snow for it. If they can't get any, they'll eat hay."

"What's its name?"

"It doesn't have a name. It's an animal. It doesn't understand names." Paul watched the motionless porlock. "You know, usually it won't let anyone see it. This must be very strange for the poor beast, so far from home and with none of its kind around."

"It won't be trying to go home, will it?"

"I don't think so. It lost its horses when the pasture was turned over to free range pork. It's been very lonely and isolated. When I showed it a new place to live, it came freely. It wants to be with horses."

Allsop turned to stare at Paul. "What kind of job do you have, anyway, you can do things like that?"

"I… communicate with animals." Paul eyed Allsop cautiously, but he needn't have worried.

"Oh, yeah," said the muggle. "Like that 'Horse Whisperer' movie a few years ago. That Robert Redford could do that, too."

"Yeah," said Paul, mystified. "Just like that."

After about twenty minutes, Allsop herded the horses back into the barn. This time there was no opposition from the porlock. Allsop nonetheless had a problem.

"He's got to have a name," he told Paul. "I'd feel funny not calling him by a name. What'd you say he was called?"

"He's a porlock."

"Poor luck," Allsop chuckled. "Not anymore if things go well. I think I'll call him Lucky."

"And if it ever seems like he knows that's his name," Paul said, "I'd appreciate knowing about it. We'd have to revise our estimates of their basic intelligence."

"I'll let you know," Allsop promised.

"Stop that!" Harry cried suddenly, causing the heads of the others to turn towards him. "Sorry," he apologized. "I've just been reminded that we need to be moving on. We promised to call on Snape," he explained to Allsop. "He's supposed to be getting home right about now."

"Yes," said Paul. "It was a pleasure meeting you, but we do have to go." With that the wizards took their leave and departed, Harry first, with Paul again following his apparation trail, and Ginny bringing up the rear.

At Snape's cottage they ran into a concerned Mrs. Hanson. "Oh, there you are. Have you seen Russ? I took a bit of a nap, and when I woke he was gone. Do you know where he's got off to?"

"It's all right, Mrs. Hanson," Ginny told her. "He's been getting that magical animal to guard Fred Allsop's horses. Except he split – has he told you about that? – and we have to put him back together again."

"Yes, yes, he did. I'm t' get Constable Latimer if that happens. Where is he? Did you leave him somewhere?"

Paul stopped Harry, letting Ginny and Mrs. Hanson go into the cottage. "How many muggles know about this?" he asked.

"The whole village," Harry said. "It's a long story."

"It had better be a good one," said Paul, following Harry into the house. "I'm an employee of the Ministry of Magic, and so are you."

Once inside, they gathered in the kitchen where Ginny took charge of sanitizing the pensieve. "There," she told the Snape who was inside Harry, "I've scoured it and scrubbed it with every cleaning spell I know. If you want me to go out into the garden and get rose petals to strew in it, I'll do that, too."

There was a pause, and then Harry said, "He would like that very much, thank you."

"That was a joke!" Ginny cried, but she went out with Mrs. Hanson to gather rose petals.

The pensieve now prepared, Harry placed the tip of his wand next to his temple and drew out the strand of gray mist. As soon as it touched the pensieve, the mist turned into Snape.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hanson. Don't be alarmed. This is what happens when I split in two. Where's that idiot body?"

"Still at my house," said Paul. "We couldn't lug it around with us."

"Well go get it!" Snape exclaimed. "I'm getting very tired of this extra-corporeal existence." Paul left to disapparate from the garden.

"What if you split again?" Ginny asked.

"It doesn't matter. I'm in my own home. Mrs. Hanson is here; Nelson is here; the Peeler's down the road. I'm as safe here as anywhere."

"You do remember," said Ginny accusingly, "that there's a way to stop this splitting."

"I'm not convinced that Hooper's right about it." Miniature Snape folded his arms across his chest. "Besides, it's a question of degree of comfort. I have support now. It's more comfortable to split."

"Mrs. Hanson." Ginny turned to the older woman, her face serious and concerned. "Professor Snape is trying to repress memories that need to be faced and dealt with…"

"Weasley, you will stop at once! This is none of your business!" Pensieve Snape's hands were now at his sides, balled into miniscule fists.

"He's storing the memories in a green crystal bottle in the front room," Ginny went on. "As long as he's splitting his mind like this, he's going to keep splitting from his body on a regular basis. It's…"

"WEASLEY!"

"…not healthy. We'd like you to help us convince him he has to face his memories and learn to…"

"I SWEAR, WEASLEY, I'M GOING TO HEX YOU INTO TOMORROW!"

"…deal with them."

"I understand, dear," said Mrs. Hanson. "I'll do what I can."

There was a 'POP!' outside, and Paul appeared, supporting the limp body of the cloned Snape in his arms.

It took a matter of seconds to replace pensieve Snape into his seventeen-year-old body. The ensuing battle lasted longer.

"Surely, dear, they can't all be bad memories. There must be one or two that you'd be willing t' put back t' fill in some of the gaps. Just enough t' hold you together."

"Mrs. Hanson, if I'd wanted to revisit them, I wouldn't have put them in the flask in the first place."

"But Professor, Paul is certain that it's the removal of _so many_ memories…"

"An opinion which he reached, Miss Weasley, within half an hour, having previously known nothing of the situation. And may I remind you, he is knowledgeable on the _animal_ mind, not the _human_ mind. Hardly an expert opinion."

"Still, you have to admit you only started splitting _after_ you started putting memories in the flask."

"That, Potter, is a _post hoc, ergo propter hoc_ fallacy. Just because there is a chronological sequence does not necessarily mean there is a cause/effect relationship."

"I don't know about the rest of you," said Paul, "but I have a wife and two children waiting for me, so I'll be off now. Good luck, Professor. I hope you find a way to stop splinching."

"No thanks to you," Snape snapped at him. Paul, however, was already out the door and disapparating. Since not one of the others had either a wife or two children, they remained to fight the fight, after a fashion.

"I'm going to go get Hermione," Ginny announced, and stomped from the cottage, to disapparate in her turn.

"And I'm getting Hagrid," Harry declared, following her example. His departure left Snape alone with Mrs. Hanson.

"Excellent," said Snape. "Let's bar all the doors against them and have supper."

"Now, Russ, it wouldn't harm you t' listen t' them. It can't be good taking memories out and putting them in a bottle." As she talked, Mrs. Hanson led the way back into the kitchen where a chicken was roasting and potatoes were boiling.

"Surely, Mrs. Hanson, you have memories you'd rather not remember. It can't all have been roses in May."

"Of course I do," Mrs. Hanson took the chicken out to rest for a few minutes while the rolls baked. A dollop of butter, some milk and some salt were added to the drained potatoes. She talked while mashing. "But I don't have the luxury some people have of taking those memories out of my brain. So I have t' learn t' deal with them. We all have t' learn t' deal with them. Why should you be different from the rest of us?"

"Because I am different. I've always been different. I was born different, and now I have a body I've only had a few months to get used to. The rest of you have been living with your bodies for years. That in and of itself could be the sole reason for my splitting apart. It might not have anything to do with the memories. Hooper's the only one who thinks that, anyway, and he hasn't had time to study the problem."

The two had a leisurely supper, one that Snape found very comforting, and finished with a pear compote. Mrs. Hanson was clearing up when Harry and Hagrid arrived.

"Ya gotta open the door, Professor," Hagrid called. "Ya got company."

Snape opened the door in order to tell Hagrid to his face that he was not going to open the door, thus giving Hagrid the opportunity to slip his foot in and keep the door from closing again. "All right," Snape huffed, "if you must, you must. There's rolls and chicken in the kitchen if you're hungry."

"Hope ya don't mind, but I brought someone along," replied Hagrid, pulling the miniature portrait of Dumbledore out of his pocket.

"Good evening, Severus," said Dumbledore. He was smiling, but he looked worried.

"Up until now, it was," Snape answered, turning and going into the kitchen.

Ginny and Hermione showed up a few minutes later. It had taken Ginny a while to locate Hermione, who had gone to Harry's rooms looking for him, leaving Harry's neighbors at the boarding house brimming with curiosity to learn what was happening. Mrs. Hanson made tea, and with six around the kitchen table, the room was suddenly very crowded. While Snape pouted at the foot of the table, unable to get up and walk out because of Harry on his right and Hagrid on his left, Harry explained the events of the day and the observations made by Paul Hooper. Then he gave Hermione the floor.

"We are dealing," Hermione began, "with two bodies and at least four mental locations. So far as I can tell, all of them are important. Let's start with the bodies. The first, of course, is your first body, Professor, the one that's buried at the foot of Pendle Hill."

"I already don't like the direction this is taking. Why do we have to talk about this?"

"Two very important reasons. First, because the memories all go with that body, not with the one you're in. There's a disconnect there. Second, because the first body was apparently an occlumens, and the second one isn't. That's another part of the problem."

"We're talking about memories, which are mental processes. What does it matter which body they're in?"

"Memories start out as physical experiences. They're made up of sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile sensations. When you relive a memory, you can re-experience the physical sensations, except the body you're in never experienced them in the first place. Is there a Dark Mark on your left arm, Professor?"

Snape looked down at his arm. Part of his mind was telling him the Mark had to be there. Another part of his mind was certain it couldn't be there. He pushed back his sleeve to check. The Mark wasn't there.

"There ain't no scars on yer back neither," said Hagrid. "I told ya that a couple o' months ago, but ya mighta forgot."

"We see it when you move," Hermione continued. "Your brain has patterns of movement that were developing for thirty-eight years, gestures and facial expressions, little physical reactions to external stimuli. That body you're in isn't really seventeen. It's less than six months old. It wants to move like an adolescent, but it's being told to move like someone near forty, and it's missing the movement patterns of the infant and child. Watching you is like watching an actor – and not a really good actor either – trying to imitate you. It's almost right, but not quite."

Around the table, the others were glancing at each other and nodding, as if Hermione had at last put into words something that had bothered them, but that they hadn't been able to identify.

"Next," Hermione continued, "there's the problem with the occlumency. I've been discussing this with Professor Dumbledore, and we think this is major. All your life, from the time you were born, you've been dealing with unpleasant thoughts and memories by locking them up in different compartments of your brain. Other people, normal people, can't do that. We have to learn to live with our memories and deal with our thoughts."

Dumbledore added his own observations. "Except that we had the benefit of learning this slowly. As children, we wrestled with childhood thoughts and memories, and those were added to gradually over the years. You've just had thirty-eight years of memories dumped on you all at once with no coping strategies. You want to handle it the way you've always handled it. You want to lock the unpleasant thoughts away, and the only place you have left to lock them in is that flask."

"Excuse me," said Harry quietly. "Professor, I want to apologize to you. I've been thinking that you were being very childish about this memory business. I didn't realize how immense it was. I don't know if I'd be able to cope with it either, and I only have eighteen years worth of them. This is bigger than I thought."

Hermione allowed the silence to extend for a moment, then went on. "That leaves the four mental locations. Part of it is the consciousness that can separate easily from the body. That should be impossible, but it's not. That consciousness has knowledge without the physical sensations associated with memory. The memories are connected to the body and do not leave when the consciousness leaves. In fact, when the consciousness is out of the body, the memories become inaccessible."

"Except to Hooper," Ginny added. "He can see some of them even when you've split."

"The third location is the bottle that apparently has such a large number of memories in it that it's interfering with the brain's processing."

"You don't know that for certain!" Snape exclaimed, trying to rise.

"Sit down," Hagrid told him. "It makes sense, 'n you know it." Snape sat down.

"Finally," Hermione concluded, "there's that bit of your mind, also conscious of itself, that remained in your old body after you'd given the rest to us. The part that was buried at the foot of Pendle Hill. We don't know how big that part was. We have to devise a way to find out."

"There is, of course," said Dumbledore, "the possibility of exhumation."

"That's disgusting!" Snape cried.

"From a certain point of view, naturally," Dumbledore agreed. "But this is a unique case. Normally, when the body dies, the brain and personality die. Yet in this case not only has the personality survived, it has survived separate from any body. What if the personality that is in you here is acting somewhat like a horcrux to keep the part of you still in the dead body alive? What if it is retrievable?"

"Horcruxes," said Snape shakily, "are made from souls, not from minds."

"That we know of," Dumbledore reminded him. "What is certain is that there was a part of you in your first body when you died, but nothing ever transferred into a portrait in the Headmistress's office. I, for one, would like to discover what has happened. Even more if it means making you whole again."

After that, even though it was late, Snape was too agitated to sleep. Mrs. Hanson retired for the night, most of the conversation having been, in any case, beyond her. The others – Hagrid, Harry, Ginny, Hermione, and Dumbledore – stayed, conjuring beds into various rooms of the cottage both upstairs and downstairs, sleeping in shifts to be ready in case Snape needed assistance during the night.

xxxxxxxxxx

_The character Paul Hooper first appears in the 1983-1984 Academic Year of the series Severus Snape: The Middle Years._


	13. Chapter 13 – Good Luck for a Porlock 3

**STORY NUMBER THREE: ****Good Luck for a Porlock – Part 3**

_Monday, August 9, 1999_

Early the next morning, both Harry and Hermione apparated back to their jobs in London. Ginny remained with Hagrid and portrait Dumbledore, not having any interviews that day. Snape, who'd suffered from insomnia all night, ate Mrs. Hanson's hearty breakfast of eggs, ham, toast, milk, juice, and coffee with considerable relish (to Hagrid's great delight), then fell sound asleep on the sofa. The other four gathered in the kitchen, speaking softly so as not to wake the slumberer.

"So you are Mrs. Hanson," said Dumbledore. "I want you to know that Severus has always spoken very highly of you. I wish we had had the opportunity to meet earlier. There is so much about him that I am certain you could illuminate for us."

"You mean tell you what he's like? What's t' say? He was always a sweet lad, very attentive and polite. He thought my poor house was a palace, the dear boy, because I had the telly, and a 'phone, and the bathtub upstairs. Didn't he love that, poor lamb."

"Sorry," Ginny admitted with a rueful smile, "you're going to have to explain that. My father and brothers have tried using a… tele… phone, but without much success. The rest…"

"You don't have such things? It's not t' be wondered at, with all you can do. Well, Russ's parents, they didn't have any money, now did they, with him working at the mill and then the mine when the mill closed. An honest working man, Toby, but too free with the drink when both happy and sad. So they couldn't afford much, and their place – it was one of the older ones with a toilet added upstairs, but no proper tub for bathing. Well, 'Leen – that was his mum – she kept him as clean as you can keep a growing boy, but in a little wash tub in the kitchen, and when he got old enough to understand – when he was what? six? - well he was that shamed by it, he didn't want her to wash him anymore, though he wasn't old enough to do it proper himself, but didn't he just love my big bathtub where he could splash and play and scrub all over with the door closed for modesty…"

"Well," said Dumbledore, "that explains that. McGonagall will be interested to know."

"Y're not gonna tell her that!" hissed Hagrid. "She's been like a mother t' him, I'll admit, but that's goin' too far. That's private."

"As you have been like a father, but really, Hagrid, does it not help to understand why your charge behaves the way he does? Why he would not let you examine his back, for example."

"Well, yeah, o' course."

"McGonagall showed Severus around Hogwarts when he started teaching, and he was so utterly embarrassed by the teachers' bath on the sixth floor that she thought he was going to sink through the floor right there. Well, naturally, it is so open and exposed, so ostentatious. Painfully prudish, I think she phrased it. About his behavior, I mean. Now I know why. Privacy is precious in the cramped quarters of a working class home."

"Well I do know that's why he didn't never like spending money," Hagrid admitted. "They didn't have none."

"Poor 'Leen and Toby," continued Mrs. Hanson, "there were times when he didn't have work and they did what they could. In '74 things were so bad, young Russ was gleaning scrap coal from the mine yard and snagging rabbits on the moor to keep the house warm and food on the table. That's what 'Leen told me. That was the summer before they died in that car crash."

Ginny had been keeping herself very small and quiet in a corner while her elders discussed the man who was like a son to them and yet old enough to be a father to her. Now she spoke up. "I can't imagine losing one of my parents. His both died on the same day?"

"They did, dear. It's not for me to tell the whole tale. It'd be good, though, if you could get him t' tell it."

"Why is that?" Ginny asked.

"We all thought there was more to it than just a car in a ditch," said Mrs. Hanson. "I know that's what Russ thinks. He should tell it, though. Not me."

They were interrupted by the sound of a car pulling off the road in front of the cottage. "I'd better make meself scarce," said Hagrid, scooping Dumbledore in his portrait off the table. "That don't sound like no ve-hi-cle from the village."

It was, as it turned out, the county inspector to look at the septic system, so Ginny and Mrs. Hanson had to wake Snape up. Ginny thought it fascinating to watch the change in Snape. With something to focus on outside himself, he was relaxed, polite, and patient. Together he and the inspector checked the outflow pipes from the upstairs bathroom and from Mrs. Hanson's, and the drainage from the kitchen sink. They walked over the dispersal field and opened and checked the tank. When the inspector left, the cottage had a clean bill of health.

"No spells?" Ginny asked as Hagrid came out of hiding carrying Dumbledore.

"Didn't need them," said Snape. "We put in a real septic system out there."

The day was far from over, however. That afternoon, after the group had a pleasant lunch in the garden, Gillian arrived. She brought a pie for Mrs. Hanson and seemed pleased that Ginny and Hagrid were there, too. After exchanging pleasantries, Snape retired to his workshop on the other side of the garden, knowing Ginny would want to brief Gillian and preferring not to listen.

All had the appearance of normalcy until a voice from Hagrid's pocket said, "Well, Hagrid, are you going to introduce me to this charming lady or not?"

By this time, Gillian had already heard eyewitness accounts of Snape vanishing from one spot to instantly rematerialize at another. Adding that to her own knowledge of wizard travel, her conversations with pensieve Snape, and her other various small acquaintances with magic, Gillian handled herself rather well on being introduced to the resident of a small diptych. When Hagrid said, as a matter of course, "Mrs. Latimer, Albus Dumbledore; Professor, Gillian Latimer," she smiled and said, "Pleased to meet you. Are you the Headmaster that Russ has spoken of?"

"Ah, he speaks of me. Favorably I hope," Dumbledore beamed.

"Usually," replied Gillian, "though much of the time it's just in passing – neutral, so to speak."

"That is, I suppose, as it should be. One does like to hear that one has been lauded to the skies, but given the nature of recent events, neutral is a good place to be. Has anyone in the past month or so bothered to inform you, dear lady, that we are breaking a very large number of laws just being here, much less talking to you?"

"I did get the idea that we were unusual in that respect. Russ won't get into any trouble, will he?"

"As long as he remains legally dead, he is in no danger. I worry, however, about a young man actually employed with the Department for the Control of Magical Creatures who provides a muggle with a porlock. That has to be in violation of Article 73 of the International Treaty on secrecy."

"Oh gosh," cried Ginny, "I forgot about that."

"It was not your business to remember it, Miss Weasley. It was Paul Hooper's business to remember it. That he chose not to is an indication of the depth of the bond formed between teacher and student over the course of seven years. Do you have an objection to that idea, Hagrid?"

Hagrid had begun to fizz. "Teacher an' student," he chuckled. "That's a good 'un. More like cohorts in crime if ya ask me…"

"The professor who always insisted we obey the rules to the letter?" Ginny burst out laughing. "No wonder he gets along so well with George. I really want George to meet Paul."

Hagrid sobered suddenly. "We need t' tell Mrs. Latimer about the memories an' the splinching. She's seen it happen."

They took turns explaining what Paul and Hermione had learned. It involved a detailed description of occlumency and legilimency, which Gillian took in stride, and an equally detailed description of Snape's death. There was a lengthy pause when they finished.

At last Gillian asked, "Where is his grandmother?"

"In an urn," Dumbledore told her. "An urn in a columbarium in a town not too far west of here."

"Because they wouldn't let her be buried in the church yard," sighed Gillian. "They will now, though. Do you think it would help if both of them were brought here?"

The others, including Mrs. Hanson, exchanged glances. "It might," Dumbledore ventured, "make the idea of exhumation palatable to him. More of a translation, like a medieval saint's bones." He chuckled in his turn. "The Feast of the Translation of St. Constantina and St. Severus," he said. "I like the way that sounds."

"What about 'Leen?" asked Mrs. Hanson. "She grew up here, too. And she wouldn't want t' lie separate from Toby."

Gillian rose. "Would you excuse me?" she said. "I'd like to visit with a neighbor."

"With our blessing," said Dumbledore.

Snape heard Gillian's approach, but didn't turn to face her, waiting until she was close to say, "So. I imagine they told you everything?"

"Everything's a lot to tell," replied Gillian. "They told me a lot, but I doubt it was 'everything.' I did bring a jar for some of that cleaning liquid."

"And you shall have some." Snape took the proffered jar and measured diluted bundimun solution into it. "That's enough for five gallons of water," he told Gillian. "Don't use it more concentrated than that. How's the garden doing?"

"Grass is sprouting, lots of it. The place has never been so green. Now I have to decide what to plant."

"Try things Ridley doesn't carry in his store. Eggplant, maybe. Or bok choy."

"That's an idea. I need to do some research."

They paused in companionable silence. Snape was mincing jobberknoll feathers, keeping the light, powdery barbs separate from the stiffer shafts. After a while, he said, "I suppose you want to see them. The memories, I mean."

"Not if you don't want to show them to me." That led to a longer silence which Gillian broke this time. "I think it might help."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know the people or places. They're neither my friends nor my enemies. The only one I'll recognize is a friend – you. I'm the disinterested observer."

"You know," said Snape, "that might not be a bad idea."

After he finished preparing the feathers, Snape sealed them in little specimen dishes and led the way into the house. At the other side of the yard, Hagrid watched Snape and Gillian, understood what they intended, and cautioned the others to stay outside.

The bare, as yet undecorated front room was sparsely furnished with just the small sofa, a chair and the low table. Snape got the pensieve and the green flask from the mantel while Gillian sat down. "Am I supposed to lean over and put my face in it?" Gillian asked, remembering what she'd seen the month before.

"No, we can watch it on the surface, like watching the telly." Snape unstoppered the flask and fished inside with his wand. It snagged a filament of thought and pulled it out, a gray gossamer thread. "I have no idea what this is," he said, "and won't until I either put it back in my head or watch it in the pensieve. If it's one I really don't want to see, I'm going to grab it and put it right back."

"Understood," said Gillian.

A touch of Snape's wand, and the thread of mist expanded into a nighttime vignette of cobbled streets and worker's cottages. The few street lamps there were dim and far apart, giving the scene a Dickensian air of drama-laden poverty. Alone on the dark street walked a small boy, perhaps as much as seven years old, clad in a school uniform that didn't fit in a myriad of ways, and sporting a Beatle haircut. He looked neither right nor left as he crossed the streets, for there were no cars to be wary of.

"That's you, isn't it?" said Gillian.

"Yes. It's my memory. I have to be in it."

Gillian forbore further comment, merely watching as the child approached a common, working class public house and pushed open the door. He was so short as to escape the notice of most of the clientele, presenting himself rather to the barmaid who'd just served a round of pints to a rowdy table.

"Hey there, Russie," the girl smiled down at him. "Y' looking f' yer old man?"

"Yes, please," the boy replied. "Ah'm t' let mum know how poorly h' is."

"'T ain't too bad t'night. He's won a couple. They b'en singing. He'll still have a shillin' or two in 'is pocket f'r 'is missus. Y' go stand guard."

"Ta," said the boy, who then left the pub as the barmaid turned and called over the noise, "Hey Toby! Y' said t' tell ya when it was seven. It's ten past."

"Blamed if ah did!" replied an older version of the young man who sat across the pensieve from Gillian, a man with the same hair, nose, and eyes, but a slightly squarer jaw. He rose shakily, but the boy was now outside the pub, and the scene Gillian watched shifted to the street.

The boy hurried to the corner across from the pub, ducking a ways down the street and hiding in a shadow, intently watching the door through which his father would soon appear. It didn't take long before four men stepped into the street. "Good game, Toby," one said. "Y're lucky t'night."

"'T ain't luck. 'T is talent." Toby seemed quite pleased with himself. "Got t' get 'ome t' the wife 'n kid now. Ball 'n chain. T' old ball 'n chain."

"We'll see ya t'morrow, then," another of the group said, and the men shook hands and parted, Toby walking fairly steadily in the direction of the watching boy, who turned and scurried down the street, his heavy shoes loud on the cobbles, the sound drowned by the equally loud footsteps of the men behind him.

The boy raced along past several dingy streets to one indistinguishable from the rest, where he turned to the right and aimed for the house at the very end of the lane. Dim light shone onto the cobbles from the front room, and the door was ajar. "Mum," the boy cried, panting slightly from the exertion as he entered the house, " 's all right, Mum. 'E ain't so poorly t'night."

The image froze and then faded. "Is that all?" Gillian asked, surprised.

"You were expecting more?" Snape was watching her carefully. "Sorry. That was it."

"But I don't understand. Did something happen later that night? Something…" she searched for the word, "…unpleasant?"

"No. It was one of his better nights. We had supper, and he was teaching me to play cribbage, so we had a couple of games, then I went to bed. A quiet night. Don't you like quiet nights? I do."

Gillian knit her brows. "I thought you put memories into that bottle because you didn't want to think about them. That wasn't a bad memory. Why would you get rid of it?"

Snape stared down at his hands. "It reminded me of something else," he said softly.

There was a silence that Gillian allowed to stretch out for a moment.

"Do you ever wonder," Snape continued, still examining his hands, "how you think you know someone, but you don't really know them at all until after it's too late? All my life I had this image of who and what my father was, and then after he was dead and it was too late, I found out I was wrong."

"When did you learn that?" Gillian asked.

"After," Snape said.

"After your father died?"

"No. Not right after. After the war was over the first time and the Dark Lord had gone. That's when I was first teaching at Hogwarts. I went home that summer for the first time in years, got caught in the rain and went into that pub. They all – his old mates – they all knew who I was. They taught me to play darts – I couldn't use magic, so I was pretty awful. And you know, it wasn't a den of sin; it was a place to relax with your mates. And I found out he was proud of me, of my going to that 'posh school' up north."

"But he never told you that." It wasn't a question. Gillian knew the answer.

"No, not in words. I knew he was proud when I stood up for myself against bullies – and I sometimes lied about that – but I always thought he hated the idea of my going to Hogwarts. He had a poor opinion of witchcraft. It didn't give him what he wanted: a good job and money. I shouldn't have given him so much trouble; I should have helped him more."

Gillian tilted her head slightly. "What did you talk about while you were playing cribbage?"

"What's to talk about? We talked about the game."

"I'll bet he enjoyed that, playing cards with his son."

"Yeah, he did. He almost never turned down a request for a game."

"Did he ever punish you? Hard, I mean."

Snape rose and began pacing, Gillian not trying to stop him. "I knew you'd come 'round to that. Of course he did. What father doesn't discipline his son? I wasn't exactly a saint as a child. And he wasn't the only one. My mother kept me in line, too, y' know."

"Do you think that's the best way to deal with misbehaving children?"

Snape halted in mid stride. "No," he said vehemently. "It doesn't solve anything. Once, once I struck a friend who was opposing me – that was right after my parents died – and I knew immediately that it was wrong. I've never hit anyone since, and I never will. I'm not like my father. I can control myself; he couldn't. There are better ways to enforce discipline."

Gillian paused, then shifted the subject. "That picture Hagrid brought, is that real?" she said suddenly. "I wanted to ask you earlier, but we got sidetracked. Is he that old headmaster of yours?"

"Yes," said Snape, relieved to be talking about someone else. "That's Dumbledore. Dead headmasters turn into portraits that talk. He hates it. He hates not being able to control people the way he used to."

"I'll bet he loved to control you," Gillian laughed.

Snape was laughing slightly as well. "He did indeed. But you know, he was really important in the war against the Dark Lord. We needed him. Without him, even after he died, we wouldn't have won."

"It sounds like he had a very loyal lieutenant."

He remained poised in front of her – erect, dignified, dedicated to a mentor and to a goal, at ease with himself and the world. "That, at least, I can say," Snape told Gillian. "I was never false to him. I made a promise, and I kept it. We may both have died in the conflict, but what we worked for lives. That is something I can be proud of. Now, enough about me. The others must be missing us, and it may even be teatime. And even if it's not teatime, it's a good time for a cup of tea. Mrs. Hanson makes scones to die for."

"I would love," said Gillian, "to try Mrs. Hanson's scones."

xxxxxxxxxx

"It is," Gillian told Hugh later that evening, "a classic case of codependence. Dad's an alcoholic, and mother and son enable."

"I think you've been doing too much studying," said Hugh. "You're projecting your lessons onto Mr. Snape."

"Really?" Gillian countered. She was finished with her nightly ablutions and was watching Hugh as he got ready for bed. "He's burdened with guilt because he didn't put his father's needs and wants ahead of his own. He desperately wants to control both himself and the environment around him because of his own insecurities, and he's proud of the fact that his abuse of students wasn't physical – that he's not like his father. He can't cope with physical or emotional intimacy, or even express his own feelings adequately, and he blindly followed that headmaster of his rather than trust his own sense of values. He needs the approval of others, but daren't ask for it, and he considers himself responsible for everything that ever went wrong in his life. You find me a better case study for addictive codependence."

"At least," Hugh grinned at her from the respectability of blue pajamas, "you can't accuse me of codependence. I have absolutely no issues about intimacy, and I don't want to control anyone."

"No?" his wife replied with a sly grin. "But aren't you blindly willing to follow my value system?"

"You bet I am," said Hugh as he crawled into bed beside her. "Lead on. Your slave follows."

xxxxxxxxxx

_Tuesday, August 10, 1999 – the day before the new moon_

"If we are going to do it, you know," said Dumbledore at a late breakfast the following morning, "it will have to be tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?" asked Hagrid.

"Do what?" Snape asked, not beating Hagrid to it due to a piece of toast in his mouth.

"Why, dig you up, of course, dear boy. Tomorrow at exactly 11:08 am is the new moon. New enterprises do best if begun at a moment when one can take full advantage of a waxing moon; you know that. Tomorrow gives us optimum wiggle time."

"Wiggle time?" snickered Snape. "Your vocabulary has taken a nosedive."

"Nosedive," Dumbledore retorted, imitating the snicker. "I cannot say much for yours either."

"Ah, but I've never pretended to intellectual gentility."

Dumbledore choose, with total abandonment of logic, to take this as assenting to his proposal. "Excellent. We shall gather tomorrow morning at the spot, and commence digging at 11:08 sharp. Pass the butter, please." This last was addressed to Mrs. Hanson.

"Wait a minute!" Snape cried. "No, we won't! We're doing nothing of the sort! And what are you doing asking for butter? You're a portrait. You can't eat."

"Whyever not?"

This put Snape at a disadvantage until he realized Dumbledore was responding to the first part of his comments rather than the second. "Because!" he snapped.

"Don't ya just love 'em?" Hagrid remarked to the room in general, which at that moment consisted of the four abovementioned, plus Ginny (who had again spent the night) and Gillian (who had arrived fifteen minutes earlier), both hoping not to miss anything interesting. "All ya gotta do is put 'em in a room together, then sit back n' watch the show."

"Shut up!" Snape and Dumbledore chorused.

"I don't want to poop any parties," Gillian ventured, "but don't you need an order from the County Coroner, or something like that? You can't just dig up dead bodies, you know."

"There," Snape exclaimed. "Spoken like the true wife of a peeler."

"I wish you wouldn't use that term," Gillian retaliated. "Nobody else around here has since about 1840."

"Sorry," said Snape. "I don't fancy 'copper' because that's what my dad called a penny. Wasn't there a constabulary in Wales – Carmarthen, I think – that they called a shilling because it had twelve coppers?"

Gillian laughed. "All right, use 'peeler' if it makes you happy. I repeat, don't we need some sort of authorization?"

"You are assuming," said Dumbledore, peering over his painted spectacles, "that we had permission to bury him in the first place. I understand that was not the case."

"What!" Gillian cried. "That's illegal!"

"I don't doubt that it is. Note, however, that for legal burial you must have a death certificate. That requires a doctor's examination of the corpse, and an explanation of both the marks of snake fangs on the neck and the subsequent bleeding to death…"

"Do we have to talk about this?" Snape moaned.

"…not something, I am certain you will agree, that we cared to go into detail about at the time."

"No," Gillian conceded. "I suppose not."

"What has not been legally interred cannot be legally exhumed. Think of it more as bones the dog buried and now you want to plant a rose garden."

"Thanks a lot!"

Snape rose to leave the kitchen, but was stopped by Hagrid. "If ya don't stay, lad, they'll run roughshod all over ya. Give 'em a fight f'r their money."

Gillian was not giving up either. "But if you have no legal authority to translate the dead remains, how will you get Mr. Davidson to consent to burial here? If he did something like that, it would cost him his position. You have to think this through."

"Maybe I don't want to be buried here," Snape pointed out.

"Not be buried with y'r parents n' y'r gram?" It was Hagrid's turn to be incensed. "That's just not natural!"

Now it was Snape's turn to explode. "Who said Mum, Dad, and Nana were going to be buried here? I'd think I'd have something to say about that!"

Ginny reacted first. "Oops!" she exclaimed. "I guess we were talking about that when you weren't here. We were thinking it might be nice if your mother and grandmother were brought back to their home village. And of course, your mum couldn't be without your dad. And then it just seemed natural to include you, too. Especially now that the church yard is all nice and neat…"

That explanation actually mollified Snape somewhat. "Oh," he said. "You were thinking of them, then. My grandmother's ashes are legally interred in a columbarium in Clitheroe. Mum and Dad are… Barrowford, I think. You could get papers for their exhumation and translation. As for me, I…"

"You're up under Pendle Hill, dear," said Mrs. Hanson. "Everyone knows. Well, not the doctor, of course. That wouldn't have been ethical, now, would it? It was rather exciting, all hush-hush like it was. I don't know what t' do about the parson here. D' you think he'd make trouble?" The question was addressed to the company, though Gillian chose to answer it.

"He can't do it. He can't perform a burial if the legalities are questionable. It isn't right even to ask him about it."

"We could," Hagrid observed, staring at the ceiling as he said it, "do a bit of an Obliviate on him."

"No!" Gillian was adamant. "No mind magic to manipulate the villagers or Mr. Davidson. I know you could probably wipe my brain clean as well, so I'd never remember this conversation, but I will not knowingly accept memory alteration."

"There!" Snape stated emphatically. "That's it. No tampering with memories. What we do, we do aboveboard and as legal as we can. If we can't do that, then we don't do it."

"So you are with us?" Dumbledore asked. "If we can perform the reburials and stay within your stipulations, you are with us?"

"You rat!" Snape exclaimed. "You led me right into that!"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Not I, said the sparrow, with my bow and arrow…"

"I think you have that backwards," Gillian pointed out. "The sparrow was admitting to the murder, not denying it."

"That," Dumbledore sighed, "is what you get when you rely on nine hundred year old nursery rhymes."

"That," Snape snapped back at him, "is what you get when you rely on senile old fools with chronic memory lapses."

Dumbledore smiled. "I got you to agree, did I not?" he said.

xxxxxxxxxx

That afternoon, Harry and Hermione were called back in, Harry because of his Ministry contacts, and Hermione for the legal angle. Hermione was the party pooper.

"A legal burial requires a legal death certificate. Without a death certificate, you can't be buried."

"Such a comforting thought," Snape commented.

"Which means," Harry broke in, "that we have to get a legal death certificate."

"Right," said Snape. "A death certificate issued tomorrow for a death that occurred over a year ago. Good luck, Potter."

"It shouldn't be too hard…"

"With no magical manipulation!"

"Who says?"

"I do," said Gillian. "All legal and aboveboard, or I don't play."

"What about the exhumation?" Dumbledore countered. "That cannot be done legally without bringing criminal charges."

Gillian thought for a moment. "Granted," she said. "Dig him up however you can, but the reinterring has to be legal."

Dumbledore's beatific smile lit the room. "Then we are 'go' for launch tomorrow."

"Get stuffed!" Snape hissed at him, causing Gillian to glance back and forth at the two of them, wondering what she'd said.

"By the way," Dumbledore added, "I was not at the original burial. Who was?"

Everyone present raised a hand except for Gillian and Snape. "Professors McGonagall 'n Sprout," added Hagrid, "'n Flitwick. Can't forget Flitwick."

"Flitwick?" said Snape. "Wait, let me guess. No one thought to ask him to cast a preservation spell on me, right?"

The others looked guiltily at each other. "Well, no, not exactly," Harry admitted. "I mean, what good would it have done at that point?"

"Except," said Hermione suddenly, "I cast one at the Shrieking Shack." Harry stared at her, shaking his head, but she ignored him. "You'd just died, and then we could hear Voldemort speaking, threatening the Hogwarts defenders. It occurred to me that we had evidence, Harry, Ron, and I, that he'd just committed murder, and I didn't want to lose it. I put a protective spell around the whole shack."

Snape sighed. "A protective spell isn't a preservation spell."

"This one was. It was a Custodia spell. Doesn't it do both?"

"Is this really important?" Harry asked.

"It could be," said Hermione. "I've just been studying this, and it's very interesting. You see, just because a person is clinically dead, or even brain dead, doesn't mean that every cell in the body has died. That takes hours. The body shuts down rather slowly. There are theories that the brain retains the imprints of memory and personality for some time after death, and that if it can be preserved, then when science has advanced enough, the memory and personality can be revived. In a sense, the 'person' will still be alive. There are muggles who have their bodies super-chilled in the hopes that someday their personality can be retrieved."

"But with blood flow and oxygen supply to the brain stopped by… oh, let's say bleeding to death," put in Snape, "the amount of time you have to save the brain imprintation decreases dramatically…"

"Unless a preservation spell has been cast." Hermione turned to portrait Dumbledore. "If I cast a Custodia on the whole Shack, wouldn't that include its contents? Wouldn't that include the professor's body?"

"It might," said Dumbledore. "I do not think that aspect of it has ever been tested. Professor Flitwick would know."

"If we bring in Flitwick," Snape pointed out, "we'll have to bring in Sprout."

"Is there either of them you do not trust?"

Snape sighed again. "Just don't tell Slughorn until after you've told the _Prophet."_

"I promise," Dumbledore said with a smile.

Hagrid was sent to fetch Flitwick and Sprout. Not wanting the shock to be too extreme, he did let slip prior to apparating what, or rather whom, they were about to meet. Thus Sprout, popping into the garden near the work shed, glanced only briefly around, fixed on Snape, and rushed to grab him in an enormous bear hug. Flitwick, a moment behind, was slightly more restrained, but only slightly.

It was some moments before Sprout looked at the rest of the company, and then she stiffened slightly. "Oh," she murmured. "Muggles."

"Indeed," said Snape. "Mrs. Hanson, Mrs. Latimer, may I present Professors Pomona Sprout and Filius Flitwick. Sprout, Flitwick – Kate Hanson and Gillian Latimer. So we are three purebloods, a part blood, four with muggle blood, a half… 'hem, yes… and a portrait. I so like a group with variety."

"How come you don't count me with muggle blood?" Harry demanded, doing the math.

"Your mother wasn't a muggle. She was a witch. The four of us have at least one parent who was totally muggle."

"Uh-uh," Harry insisted. "I'm not going to be singled out. You're a half blood, and Hermione's a muggle born…"

Gillian burst out laughing. "Is that anything like a mulatto? Are all wizards this race conscious?"

"Unfortunately, dear lady," said portrait Dumbledore, "they are. The war that ended a little over a year ago was precisely about blood and blood status. Well, no, that is not true. It was about power and manipulation, but it was under the cover of blood and blood status. That is what most people thought it was about."

"Then you're just as bad as we are," said Gillian. "maybe worse."

"Frequently much worse," chimed in Snape.

"What we need to know," – Dumbledore's voice oozed frustration – "is whether or not, and this is chiefly for you, Filius, a preservation spell was cast on Severus's remains before he was buried last year."

"Of course it was," Flitwick said. "That's what Miss Granger wanted. I merely amplified it."

Hermione's forehead creased in thought, which caused her nose to wrinkle as well. "I never asked you for a preservation spell, Professor."

"Well, no, not in so many words," said Flitwick. "But there was already a preservation spell there, and it had your wand signature all over it."

"You can tell who cast a spell?"

"Sometimes. The longer a spell is supposed to last, the more likely it is to leave a signature. Dueling and apparation spells don't, but construction and preservation spells do. And please remember, Miss Granger, that there is hardly a witch or wizard in Britain whose wand I have not had under close observation for at least five years, and frequently seven. There are circumstances under which I could tell if the wand in question was being wielded by its rightful owner or not."

"The point being," Snape butted in, "that two preservation spells were cast, one immediately after I… he… This is terrible. I hate this."

"After you died, dear," said Sprout, "and another before you were interred. Oh, my. That does sound awful, to be talking to someone to his face about his burial."

"And tomorrow," Dumbledore announced to the two newcomers, "we must dig him up again. At 11:08 or shortly thereafter due to the new moon."

"Is that Greenwich time or summer time?" Hermione asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, we're on summer time right now, but astronomical phenomena are usually given in Universal or Greenwich time. So 11:08 Greenwich time would be… 10:08 summer time. I think. Or is it 12:08?"

"Twelve-oh-eight," said Gillian.

"That would make a difference," Dumbledore conceded. "If we dig him up an hour early…"

"I wish you would stop using that expression," Snape complained.

"…then the moon would still be waning and it could adversely affect everything. What expression would you like me to use?"

"I don't know. Recover, retrieve, reclaim… even disinter would be better."

"The technical term is exhume," Dumbledore reminded him.

"I hate that word. Try to show a little sympathy."

"But I, too, am dead. And buried. And locked in a frame. I say that gives me a little leeway of expression."

"Nobody's talking about digging you up."

"And they never will, for I am in a tomb, not shoveled under a rock."

"Discrimination!" Snape cried.

"Will the two of you shut up!" Ginny had risen from her seat, her posture a study in frustration. "We haven't a lot of time. Tomorrow at 12:08 or shortly after, we need to recover a coffin. Are we even sure yet what we have to do with it once we get it? Does anyone know? If we don't, we need to find out really fast."

Hermione took over. "We have to find out if any part of Professor Snape's consciousness is there, and if there, whether it's retrievable. And how we can give it back to him."

That sparked a lively debate that ranged through a variety of questions, such as how they were to ascertain the existence of a portion of personality in what was otherwise a corpse, how they were to extract it, and whether or not it would be dangerous trying to replace it – or rather, place it for the first time – in the cloned body.

"And what about the old body?" Harry asked. "What if it's still in excellent condition? Are we just going to bury it again?"

"We'd have to find an intact blood supply," Hermione ventured, caught up in the intellectual side of the matter.

"Wait a minute!" burst out Snape. "What about me? What would you do with me?"

"My," whispered Gillian, leaning closer to Mrs. Hanson, "this is beginning to get gruesome."

"I know," Mrs. Hanson whispered back. "Isn't it lovely?"

Harry suddenly glanced over at Ginny, who nodded. "I need to get Paul Hooper up from Norfolk," he said. "He may be the only one who could tell if there's anyone home." He rose and strode toward the work shed, disapparating on the way.

Sprout turned to Dumbledore, "Hooper?" she said accusingly. "The goat boy? What possible good could he do?"

Dumbledore passed the question to Snape, who replied, "Hooper was born with the ability to establish a legilimency link with animals. We've recently discovered this extends to unconscious humans, though not to conscious ones."

"That may be so," objected Dumbledore, "but the mind we have to go into isn't unconscious. It's dead. How is he at reading dead minds?"

"Excuse me," Snape said. "I need to be alone for a few moments." He got up and went into the house. After a minute, Gillian followed him. Snape was in the front room, sitting next to the pensieve.

"This has got to be difficult for you," Gillian said, sitting next to him. "I can't imagine me listening to a conversation like this about myself. I'd go bonkers."

"They mean well," Snape replied quietly.

"Does that make it easier for you?"

Snape had to think about that for a moment. "I don't know," he confessed after a few minutes. "I hadn't thought about it before, but I'm two different people. I'm thirty-eight, and I'm seventeen. What if the other body is viable? What if it comes to me having to chose between the two? Live in one and bury the other? I don't know if I could choose."

"You're right," Gillian admitted. "It couldn't be both. There's only one mind. Do you… This is a terrible question to ask… Do you have a preference?"

Snape considered the question carefully. "I'm more used to the other one," he admitted, "but I've also become somewhat used to this one. And who knows how much neurological damage the other one has suffered. Neither one is really 'me' anymore. My old colleagues and Mrs. Hanson would be more comfortable around the person they've known for years. The people here don't know that person. They'd be more comfortable around me. This body was made from infant DNA and should live longer…"

"Is that an important consideration?"

"Maybe. But it keeps splinching… separating… And yet if Hermione's right, that would happen with the other body, too. I really don't know."

"Does it matter to you that the other body has been dead and buried for over a year?"

"That's another thing I don't know. What are they going to dig up out there? Is it going to be me? Is it even going to look like me? Or is it going to be something horrible?"

"Maybe we shouldn't do this. May be it's better if we just leave well enough alone."

Snape shook his head. "Something was in there," he said. "A part of me, my mind, was in there, and I need to try to find it."

Gillian was quiet for a few moments. Then she said calmly, "Did you know there was going to be a total eclipse of the sun tomorrow? The Romanians will see it at its peak, but people in Cornwall and Devon will still see a total eclipse. We'll see a partial one."

Snape stared at her. "Why didn't I know this?" he demanded.

"I guess because you don't have a television yet, and you don't read newspapers. Nobody from here is going south to see it. We're content with what we'll get. It's been exciting enough around here the last couple of days as it is."

Snape stood and began to pace the room. "When is the peak of the eclipse?" he asked, then laughed. "Silly me. The new moon causes the eclipse. It peaks at about the same time that the moon is new, or within a minute or two. Does Dumbledore know?"

"Shouldn't he?" Gillian asked. "Doesn't it have something to do with astrology?"

"Dumbledore hates all forms of divination. Potion brewers pay attention to the moon, but not the sun. My grandmother had a horoscope cast for me that foretold bad luck at my sorting at Hogwarts. I wonder what it would predict from the eclipse tomorrow."

"There must be someone who could do that for you now." Gillian did not provide her own opinion of the value of a horoscope.

"No," said Snape. "On second thought, probably not. It wouldn't change anything, would it? No more than it did when I was eleven."

"So you're going to go through with it tomorrow."

"Yes," Snape said ruefully. "I suppose you could say we are 'go' for launch.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Wednesday, August 11, 1999, the new moon_

They gathered the following morning at Mrs. Hanson's old home – Snape, Hagrid (with Dumbledore), Gillian, Ginny, Harry, Paul, Hermione, Flitwick, Sprout and, of course, Mrs. Hanson. Except that this time Hermione was accompanied by Ron, who looked decidedly uncomfortable at first, but was soon put into a relaxed state by Mrs. Hanson's doughnuts. Especially the jam filled ones.

Gillian had driven Mrs. Hanson and Snape over from Weetsmoor, Snape not wanting to risk apparation, but the others apparated in from Hogwarts, London, Norfolk, and Devon. Snape was not happy when he saw the assembled group.

"There's thirteen of us," he exclaimed on entering the sitting room. "That's bad luck. We can't do this today."

"Calm down, Severus," admonished Dumbledore. "If you were to take time to count, you would see that we are twelve."

"But the peeler… the peeler makes thirteen."

"Hugh's not coming," Gillian assured him. "This isn't exactly legal, so he can't be present, not even on his day off."

"Oh, yeah!" countered Snape. "What about the thing in the body? If it's still living, it's number thirteen. We have to call this off."

"That's daft," Hagrid told him. "If I got two apples 'n divide 'em into quarters, that don't mean I got eight apples. Just two divided into quarters."

"That's right, Severus. We are twelve, and you are not going to weasel…"

"Hey!" Ron yelled.

"Excuse me, wiggle… out of this one." Dumbledore smiled at the assembled company. "What time is it?" he asked benignly.

"About nine thirty," Gillian answered.

"Then we have an hour," said Dumbledore. "Less for those driving."

That hour passed surprisingly quickly once Ginny, Mrs. Hanson, Gillian, and Sprout managed to get Snape to think about decorating. They went through the entire house noting all the furniture and even going so far as to discuss color schemes for the cottage.

"I never noticed before," Harry said to Hagrid, a note of puzzlement in his voice, "but does it seem to you like he gets along better with women than with men?"

"Come to think of it," Ron observed, "he never did yell at Hermione that much, and Ginny says she didn't see why we had so much against him."

"That ain't surprising," said Hagrid. "He was raised by four women – his mum, two grams, 'n Mrs. Hanson – and his only friend was a girl. A man what's raised among women gets along with 'em better."

Harry sighed. "And all I had was Dudley. I'm going to make a terrible husband."

"You!" cried Ron. "I'm carrying the burden of five brothers, and one of them's Percy!"

"Ladies and gentlemen," called the portrait, who had been listening to the conversation without participating, "it is time to go to Pendle Hill."

All the wizards but Paul had attended the funeral and knew where to apparate. He simply followed them. Mrs. Hanson also knew where to go and directed Gillian, who drove the few miles and then left the car parked off the road while they and Snape climbed over stone walls and hiked across fields and the moor country to the base of the hill where the land undulated in craggy folds, and Hermione had already set out concealment spells. Around them the light took on a different quality, a loss of its usual morning brightness, for the eclipse had already begun.

It was, Snape thought as he turned with the others to look towards the sun, high in the sky but still east of its zenith, fortunate to have an eclipse to take his mind off the business at hand. Watching in cautious glances as the pale moon disc devoured the brighter yellow one, Snape allowed himself to take in the wide expanse of open sky, the stark beauty of the rolling moor land, and the brisk wind that whipped at his hair and clothing. It was not a bad place to end up.

The sun shrank to a narrow crescent and a kind of twilight dimmed the land and then, by about twenty past eleven, the little group noticed that the sun was growing again, the crescent widening, and the brightness of the day returning.

"Wow," Ron breathed. "That was awesome. Now, where's this grave we've got to dig up?"

"You might," Gillian said, moving to stand beside Snape, "think of that as metaphorical. Light returning after a period of darkness. Maybe it's symbolic of what's going to happen today."

"I hope you're right," said Snape, then stopped. He'd turned to face the hill, where Flitwick had just cast the spell that revealed the presence of the magical grave.

It was a simple thing, a slight mound in the earth, six feet long and three feet wide, covered with a patch of low lying green dotted with tiny yellow and purple flowers, celandine, and dog violets. Floating at one end of the mount was a translucent magical marker that read:

_Here lies the body of Severus Snape_

_Headmaster of Hogwarts_

_1960 – 1998_

_R. I. P._

"Well," said Ron. "Do we start?"

"Not yet," Dumbledore replied from his place pinned to Hagrid's coat. "Not until eight past twelve summer time. That is when the moon will begin waxing again."

"I thought it was when the eclipse happened," Ron said, confused.

"The eclipse is still happening," Gillian explained. "The moon is traveling east in its orbit, and as it travels, its shadow moves east. They're probably watching it in France now. It will reach the point of greatest eclipse at the time the shadow passes over Romania. That's what we're waiting for."

"Wicked," said Ron to Hermione and Ginny. "That means Charlie 'll see it." Suddenly he turned to Harry. "And that means I've got time. Look, I know I'm here because I was in the Shack when he died, but I can't go back to Diagon Alley and tell George that I watched a grave being opened and didn't tell him until it was over. I'm getting him."

And with that, before anyone could stop him, even as Snape cried, "No!" – Ron disapparated.

"Now we _will_ be thirteen!" Snape yelled at Hagrid's jacket. "We have to call this off!"

"Severus, you know we can't call it off now. We have to find the missing piece of you, and this is where it is."

"But I don't want this to continue!"

"Alas," Dumbledore sighed, though he was still smiling, "this is no longer about you. I will not be the person who disappoints George Weasley. He has already suffered enough."

"What about me?"

"You, dear boy, are lucky we are looking out for you and have your best interests at heart."

It took Ron a while to find George, who had locked the joke shop when wizards outside in Diagon Alley started pointing out the eclipse, and had then run into and stopped to chat with Angelina Johnson. He'd just started back to the shop when Ron spied him and told him what was afoot. The shop was forgotten.

It was eleven when Ron and then George popped onto the moor a few yards away from the others. George knew almost everyone, and Ron introduced him to Mrs. Hanson, Gillian, and Paul Hooper. At the mention of Paul's name, George's eyes narrowed.

"You left Hogwarts in June '89, didn't you?" said George.

"Yeah," Paul replied, sizing George up as well.

"We started at Hogwarts in September '89, me and my brother," George continued. "You were… remembered."

"Fondly, I hope," said Paul.

"What fun would that be?" George grinned.

"Indeed," Paul grinned back.

"Enough!" cried portrait Dumbledore. "It is now time! Professor Flitwick, will you do the honors?"

"Wait," George interrupted. "Shouldn't Professor McGonagall be here?"

It was Hagrid who answered. "She didn't want to come, lad. Said she didn't want any, eh…" He glanced nervously at Snape. "…nasty memories."

"Thanks a lot," said Snape acidly.

The sod on top of the grave was carefully removed by a slicing spell, so as not to harm the flowers on top, and laid to one side. Then Flitwick cast a delving spell to remove the soil above the coffin and lifted the coffin out, letting it hover next to the now empty grave. It was a plain pine coffin, not much more than a box with a hinged lid. The protection spells were wearing off, however, for though it was in excellent condition considering the general dampness of the Pendle region, the lid was slightly water stained.

"Excuse me," said Snape, walking away from the others. "I don't want to watch this." He sat down a distance apart, where he could rest his back against a large rock. Drawing his knees to his chest, he wrapped his arms across them and laid his head on his arms. Mrs. Hanson joined him, a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Probably for the best," said Dumbledore, motioning to Flitwick to open the coffin. The rest hung back as the hinged lid creaked upwards, so Hagrid and Dumbledore were the first to look inside. Hagrid was silent. "Oh, dear," was all that Dumbledore said, then added after a moment, "You were right, Severus. You did not want to watch."

That was too much for George, who pushed forward to the other side of the coffin. "Crikes!" he gasped. "He looks like a vampire!"

There was a general movement forward by everyone except Sprout and Ginny, both of whom went to sit by Snape in quiet sympathy. Hermione did glance at Snape, who had not moved, and whispered to Harry, "This is awful," but was unable to hold back her curiosity. As he peered into the coffin, Harry could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

Snape, the Snape Harry had known for seven years, lay dressed in his robes as Headmaster, his hands folded peacefully on his chest. Neither hands nor face was any longer pale, though, having taken on a slightly brownish tinge, as if he had acquired a slight tan. The face was very thin, thinner than Harry had ever seen it, and the lips were drawn back from teeth that were abnormally long. Looking again at the hands, it seemed to Harry that the fingernails were longer, too. Snape's black hair had fallen back from his shoulders, and the fang marks left by Nagini were visible in the thin neck. George was right.

"D' you think he really is a vampire?" Ron whispered, staring down in fascination. "Wicked!"

"Of course not," said Gillian in a low, matter-of-fact tone as she looked past Harry's shoulder. "It's just desiccation. The body's drying out instead of decomposing. That's what's darkening the skin and shrinking the tissue. His teeth and nails look longer because the gums and cuticles are receding. If this were the Middle Ages, having his body be in this condition more than a year after his death would be considered evidence that he was a saint."

George laughed. "Saint Severus!" he crowed, to be shushed by Hermione, who nodded toward the living Snape. "Oops," he muttered.

"How do you know all this?" Hermione asked Gillian.

"I met Hugh when he was studying criminal forensics in Glasgow. I've seen a lot of cadavers."

"I guess that means," said Paul, "that the body is…"

"Definitely dead," Gillian agreed. "It's probably better that he doesn't have to make the choice."

"Which still leaves us with the other matter," Dumbledore reminded them. "We have to find out if there's any consciousness still inside."

"I really don't think…" Paul started. He'd gone pale and looked very nervous. "I mean, there's not much point in looking now, is there?"

Harry swallowed a lump of nausea that threatened to rise in his throat and glanced around at the cleanliness of the surrounding moor. "I agree," he said. "It looks like we're too late."

"We do not know that," Dumbledore pointed out. "What if we are just in time, and this is the last opportunity to free him from this situation? Could you live with the possibility that you'd let him go when you could have brought him back?"

Paul shook his head, and the rest withdrew from the coffin except for Hagrid. Flitwick even removed the little portrait from Hagrid's jacket. Only Hagrid and Paul would see what was there when Hagrid opened the dead eyes for Paul to gaze into.

"Ready," came the gentle murmur of Hagrid's voice. "I'll lift them slow, but you got t' be quick…" Harry faced away from the coffin, watching white clouds drift across the blue sky…

And then the peace was shattered as Paul staggered away from the coffin shrieking, "NO! NO! Get it out! Get it out of me!"

Even Snape was on his feet, but Hagrid was fastest, grabbing Paul's wrists while the young man clawed at his chest and throat as if trying to tear something from his body…

Flitwick, too, was fast to react. _"Relinque!"_ he shouted, his wand pointing first at Paul, then jerking back like a whip handle. Paul went rigid and then limp, collapsing into Hagrid's arms. Beside them the air shimmered, a vague transparency in the bright sunlight of early afternoon. It was Harry who stepped forward.

"Professor Snape?" he ventured timidly. The barely visible specter faced him for a long moment, its eyes widening in horror then, with a desperate wail that Harry heard more with his heart than with his ears, it spun in a tight coil, rose in a narrow parabolic arc, and plunged back into the coffin.

"No!" Harry cried, running up to the coffin. "It's all right! He's dead! I got your message! I went to him in the Forbidden Forest and let him kill me, except what he killed was the part of himself that he put there when he accidently made me a horcrux. Neville killed Nagini, and then there was a big fight and he died. Really died. He's dead!"

He stopped and waited. Behind him the others, silent, also waited. A moment, another, and a silvery image emerged from the coffin, clearer now that it had Harry's shadow shielding it from the sunlight. "Then what took you so long, Potter?" it demanded.

"What are you talking about?"

"What's the date?"

"August eleventh. Uh, 1999."

The silver apparition rose menacingly. "A year and a quarter, Potter. A year and a quarter. Do you have. Any idea. What it is like. _To be locked in a box._ WITH A CORPSE. _FOR A YEAR AND A QUARTER!"_

"I'm… I'm sorry… I…"

"We thought ya were dead," said Hagrid, coming forward to support Harry.

"I AM DEAD, YOU IDIOT!" shrieked Snape. "And YOU! YOU LOCKED ME IN THERE! Dead people are supposed to leave! I couldn't leave! Whose brilliant idea was it to cast a prison spell on me!"

Hermione stepped up, her voice shaky. "It wasn't a prison spell. It was a protection spell, a preservation…"

"Just exactly which spell was it, Miss Smartypants?" hissed the ghost of Snape.

"A Custodia."

"And I take it you have never heard of the phrase 'in custody?' It was a prison spell!"

"Wait a minute," said Harry. "I thought only people who were afraid of dying became ghosts."

"Yes, those and the ones WHO GET IMPRISONING SPELLS CAST ON THEM _BY COMPLETE DUNDERHEADS!_ The furious phantom glanced around at the shocked spectators, its gaze falling on the younger version of itself. "What in the world is that!" it screamed.

"It's you, Russ." Mrs. Hanson separated herself from the little group around Snape and moved towards the coffin. She seemed quite calm. "A lot's happened since we buried you, and I think you need t' quiet down a bit and learn about it. But first I want you t' know that we're all here today because we came t' get you. We found out you might still be in there, and we came t' set you free."

The ghost blinked at her several times. It glanced around at the assembled group, noting the presence of portrait Dumbledore. "Where's Minerva?" it asked suddenly. "She isn't… She didn't…"

"She's fine," said Dumbledore. "Headmistress now, in fact. She preferred not being here. She wanted to remember you as you used to be."

"Why is George here without Fred?"

"Fred died in the battle," said George. "And you always were the only Professor who could tell us apart."

"Hooper? Is that you?"

"Yes, sir," said Paul. "They called in the heavy artillery for this one."

That left Gillian. "And the woman? Not a witch. What has happened that you can bring someone non-magical to an occasion like this?"

"I told you it was a long story, Russ," Mrs. Hanson said gently. "Why don't we all go t' my house and talk about it?"

The ghost looked around uncertainly. "Am I allowed to go with you?" it asked. "Aren't we tied to a haunting spot?"

"I don't know," said Dumbledore. "Why don't you try?"

"And what about… this?" The word was spoken with considerable distaste as the ghostly image of Snape gestured toward the corpse in the coffin. "Aren't you going to put it back? It's hardly doing any good to anyone out here."

"You should have more respect," countered Ginny. "He was your body, and he served you well."

"I defy you," the ghost snarled, "to spend more than a year trapped in a box with anyone and not come out with a less than favorable opinion of them. I hate that thing."

"We're going to rebury it," Harry explained, "with your parents and your grandmother."

"My parents and my grandmother are not buried in the same place."

"They will be," said Harry. "In the churchyard in your grandmother's village" The words had barely left his lips when the specter let out a ghastly shriek and vanished. "What was that?" Harry cried, uncovering his ears and realizing that everyone else had instinctively done just what he had done. "Where did he go? I thought that would make him happy."

Snape now joined the conversation. "He doesn't know anything that's happened from the moment he died. Not about the casualties at the battle, not about the pensieve or the cottage, not about Mrs. Hanson… nothing except what we just told him. This is going to be rough." He thought for a moment. "At least he knows he's a ghost. When I first revived, I didn't know I was dead… That really sounded strange didn't it?"

"Not to us, dear," said Mrs. Hanson.

"I wonder where he went," said Dumbledore. "Flitwick, do you know where he might have gone?"

Paul stepped over to the coffin and looked down. "Not here," he said. "I imagine 'here' is the last place he wants to be. May I suggest you seal and preserve it because who knows how long it will be before it gets buried again. I'm off now. They're expecting me back at the Ministry. Good luck, and keep me advised what happens to the professor." With that, he disapparated.

"Me, too," said Hermione. "I said I'd be gone a couple of hours, and it's already past that. Ron will keep me informed. Bye." And she was gone, too.

Flitwick was, meanwhile, casting spells to preserve the coffin and its contents. "Pomona and I will have to get back to Hogwarts soon as well. Getting ready to open school, you know, and ever since the battle it's been harder to do."

Dumbledore, Harry, and Hagrid were trying to put together a list of places where the ghost of Snape might have gone when another silvery image appeared in their midst. This one had the form of a tabby, and though it addressed itself to Dumbledore, it spoke so that all could hear, and in the voice of Professor McGonagall.

_"Albus, have you lost something? Because it has turned up here, and it is not happy. I would appreciate your returning as soon as possible."_

No sooner had the cat finished than Dumbledore was gone, back to his portrait in McGonagall's office. The others exchanged looks.

"Well, now that we know," volunteered Gillian, "I suggest that Mrs. Hanson, Russ, and I go back to her house and continue with the decorating plans. I hardly think any of us would be of assistance in the present situation."

"I agree," said Snape. "My presence is _not_ going to help him calm down."

"What about you?" Gillian asked Ginny. "Go with them, or stay with us?"

Ginny was torn, but in the end opted for the company of Snape and the two women, reasoning that a crowd of people at Hogwarts would be counterproductive, and that she had been picking up tons of tips about muggle housekeeping from Mrs. Hanson and Gillian.

"Somebody needs to go back and tend to the shop," George said to Ron. "Personally, I'd like it to be you."

"But I was there when he died!"

"Even better that you disappear right now." When Ron still balked at leaving, George said, "Really? You're going to deny me this?" at which point Ron left for London.

Sprout and Flitwick stayed a bit longer to handle the transport of the coffin, while Hagrid, George, and Harry apparated to the Hogwarts gate and were soon hurrying up the hill to the castle. They were met in the entrance hall by a quartet of distraught ghosts and a gloating Peeves. For once the usually taciturn Baron was the spokesperson.

"Say that it cannot be so. The head of Slytherin house cannot have been afraid to go on."

"Don't worry," said Harry. "He wanted to go, but he was locked in his body by a containment spell, and now it's too late."

Above him, a disgruntled Peeves departed with an angry 'pop.'

"Where'd the Professor go?" Hagrid asked the ghosts. "Headmistress's office?"

"When he came through here," volunteered the Fat Friar, "it was right through Sir Nicholas. You know," he added for his fellow ghosts, "that should have tipped us off that he was new at it – not knowing where you were."

"You're right, now that I think of it," said Nearly Headless Nick. "To be so clumsy after more than a year is highly unusual. And for this to be his first time at Hogwarts. We should have realized sooner how odd that was."

"He went first to his old rooms, but of course that's a storage area now. No one wants to live there; it's too cold. That upset him terribly." The friar shook his head sadly. "And then the common room was empty – well, it's August, you know."

"Has she found someone t' teach Dark Arts?" asked Hagrid. "He mighta gone there." He turned to Harry and George. "Ya knew, didn't ya, that they cancelled it last year. No one wanted t' touch it. It's lookin' like there won't be no Dark Arts this year neither."

"That may have been where he was going," Nick said, "but on the first floor he ran into Professor McGonagall – the poor lady is not used to close encounters with ghosts – and she ordered him to her office."

"Did he resist?" The tone of Hagrid's question indicated its importance.

The ghosts looked perplexed. "He refused," said the Baron.

"Then he went," the Grey Lady added.

"It's because she called him Severus and spoke to him as she always does," was the Friar's opinion. "She told him what a fright he'd given her, said he looked terrible, and would he like to come to her office to talk about it."

"Then that's where we're going," said Harry, starting for the stairs. "The headmaster's office."

"Whoa, young Gryffindor," exclaimed Nick. "Not that office. The office she had as Transfiguration teacher. It's empty, too. Well, not empty, but they don't have a new teacher for that either and she still conducts the classes."

"We believe she thought he would be more at ease there," the Grey Lady said.

The three climbed the great marble staircase to the first floor where McGonagall's old office and private rooms were, and gently tapped at the door. McGonagall seemed unsurprised to see them there, though she raised a sharp eyebrow at the presence of George. "You have visitors, Severus," she called over her shoulder.

"I don't want visitors," came Snape's voice, but McGonagall ushered them in anyway.

"It will be good for you, you know, and if they misbehave I shall usher them out." She gestured toward places for the new arrivals to sit. The silvery transparency that was Snape was lying, his right arm across his eyes as if to shut out all sight, on a sofa on one side of the room. Or rather, he was floating about two inches above the sofa. He didn't seem to notice the discrepancy, and none of the others mentioned it. Portrait Dumbledore was dozing in a frame above McGonagall's desk.

"Wonderful," Snape continued, not looking at them. "Gawking tourists. Idle curiosity. Like a zoo. Do not feed the ghost."

"Couldn't if we wanted to," George observed mildly. "You can't eat."

"Thank you, Weasley. Without your helpful reminder I might have forgotten that point and attacked a custard tart. What are you doing here?"

"Curiosity," George confessed, his tone casual. "But mine's professional, not idle. I want to find out what it's like being shut in a coffin with a dead body."

"Fine. Let's lock you in small box with a decomposing corpse for a couple of months and satisfy that curiosity of yours."

"I'd ever so much more like to hear it from you."

The curiosity of the ghost had, by this time been piqued. "How is this professional?" it asked.

"I'm thinking of a 'buried alive' gag for mock haunted houses. They'd be great for Halloween. Bring in a fortune." There was a look of calculation on George's face that had nothing to do with money.

"You're disgusting," said Snape.

"Yeah, I know. It's a major part of the business. You can't be in the joke business if you haven't got a disgusting streak. So, what did it smell like? Do you still have a sense of smell?"

That brought a pause. After a moment, Snape's arm moved away from his face and he sat up on, or rather above, the sofa. "No," he said, mirroring George's expression. "No, I don't."

"Interesting," said George. He never looked away from Snape's face, somehow seeming to know that the others were letting him take the lead. "You can see and you can hear. I'm going to presume no sense of taste. What about touch?"

Snape's ghost ran his fingers over the fabric of the sofa, then stuck them into the sofa. "It's warmer than the air," he said. "Minerva was very warm."

"Severus!" McGonagall looked shocked.

"Well you were! I can't help it. It's not my fault." The ghost thought for a moment. "In a way, I can see why one might want to possess the living. It is a rather pleasant sensation, especially after all those months in a box."

"It wasn't to me," said McGonagall. "Ghosts are cold."

"Cold hands, warm heart," George observed.

"I rather object to that, Weasley," said the ghost. "No one has ever before accused me of having a warm heart."

"Can you walk through walls?" George asked, ignoring the reprimand.

"I don't know. I suppose so."

"Give it a try, then."

"Why? So you can live vicariously through my experiences?"

George burst out laughing. "Don't need your experiences, Professor. I have my own. I may have more than you do."

"Don't count on it. I'm older than you are."

"Did you ever kiss a Quidditch captain?"

"I must admit, that's one I'm missing." The ghost of Snape narrowed its eyes. "Have you ever had someone slam a bowling ball into your skull because he was trying to rip your thoughts out of your brain?"

George's eyes widened. "No, sir. Don't think I have."

"Excellent. I'll tell you what. You give me yours, and I'll give you mine."

Harry spoke up then. "Sir, you don't have that one anymore."

"What are you blathering about, Potter?"

"That memory about you and Voldemort, where Macnair used the spine spell. You destroyed it."

Snape's ghost turned cold, menacing eyes on Harry. "How do you know about that memory?" he snarled. "Hagrid? Dumbledore? Not from Madam Pomfrey, and there were only the three."

"You showed it to me, sir. Several months ago. And you hated him so much that something happened, and you tore the memory apart from inside…"

"I assure you, Potter, that memory is intact, as are they all, so I suggest you consult Madam Pomfrey about hallucinations and possible brain damage. Perhaps caused by inordinate swelling of the head." The ghost rose and began pacing the room.

"Did you know right away that you were dead?" George asked, and Snape's attention was distracted from Harry.

"Believe it or not, Weasley, I am a shade or two quicker on the uptake than Binns. For a moment, when Minerva and Hagrid came for me, I thought it was to take me to Madam Pomfrey. Then they closed my eyes, and I realized I could still see them clearly. There was nothing I could do. Granger and Flitwick have a lot to answer for. I notice they didn't have the temerity to join you here."

Portrait Dumbledore 'woke up' then. "I just had a marvelous idea. Severus, how would you like a position here? That Dark Arts job you always loved happens to be open and think of the effect of having it taught by someone who…" He stopped as five pairs of eyes glared at him, not one showing support for the idea.

"Although," McGonagall said after a moment, "staying here for a while might not be a bad idea. We have over twenty experts in the whole business of being a ghost who could assist you, and the library where you can do research…"

"What, pray tell, would I be researching?"

"How to move on, of course. You are not like the others. You are here because of a confinement spell. There might be a way, you know."

"Minerva," the ghost sighed, a hint of despair entering his voice, "how could I use the library? I can't even turn the pages of a book."

"The more reason you should stay here and teach," Dumbledore pointed out, refusing to let the ghost wallow in self-pity. "As a professor, and possible even head of house once more, it would be easy for you to find assistants to perform such mundane tasks for you. You would have two hundred pairs of willing hands."

"Why wouldn't Slughorn continue as head of house?" Snape demanded.

"Why he already retired, just under twenty years ago. He was certainly not intending this to be another career, and frankly I only wanted him here because he had information about Tom Riddle that I needed, and that I did not want Voldemort to get. Why, Severus, what is wrong?"

To everyone's surprise, the ghostly Snape had jumped and clutched its left arm. "Are you sure he's dead?" it insisted. "Why does the mark burn if he's dead?"

"That is indeed interesting," said Dumbledore. "Insofar as I am aware, none of the other former Death Eaters has reacted to his name. This is the first time in over a year that the mark has caused pain. It may be because he was still alive when you died, and your mark has preserved it's sensitivity."

Harry suddenly remembered the manifestations of Voldemort in the purple soulstone flask as well, but decided not to mention it. Not yet, anyway.

"You're probably right," the ghost admitted. "Confounded nuisance, having it flare up like that. With luck there will be few who want to say the name, at least around me."

"Ya know," mused Hagrid, who'd followed the conversation in his own manner, "this is gonna help young Russ, having you here. I mean, if there's a dead body and a ghost, he can't be you, now, can he? The Ministry…"

"Russ!" the ghost was shrieking before Hagrid could finish. "Are you talking about that… that thing that was at the gravesite? How dare you call it by my name!"

"Now really," Harry butted in, "that's not nice. He is you, and he's just as unhappy about what's happened to him as you are. And it is your fault, you know."

"How could that possibly be my fault? I was dead, remember?"

Harry shifted slightly on his chair but didn't stand. It was better to give the ghost a feeling of dominance. "Do you remember everything that happened in the Shrieking Shack that led to your death?" he asked.

"If you're referring to serpents in spheres, yes. I do."

"Do you remember what you did when you saw me?"

"I passed information on to you." The ghost had paused, hesitated.

"A lot of information. Every piece of information you'd ever possessed it appears."

"That was not my intention." Snape's ghost looked worried.

"I took it upstairs to the pensieve and found the memory where Professor Dumbledore explained that I was a horcrux, so I did what he said I had to do. Hermione had collected the thoughts in a conjured flask, but back in January I had them transferred into a soulstone flask, and…"

"Soulstone!" the ghost erupted. "Where would you get soulstone?"

"It's a long story. Volde… You Know Who's in it. The story, I mean. Anyway, that's when we found out your personality had survived with all the memories, so I found a lock of your baby hair in your mother's things, and we cloned…"

"What were you doing in my mother's things!" The ghost advanced menacingly on Harry, but there was nothing it could do to stop the younger man from talking except create a chill.

"Trying to help you. The point is, that's you. You're still alive, your personality and all your memories, in a body cloned from a lock of your hair, and I really think you should meet him."

"That's disgusting!" the ghost spat out, wheeling away from Harry to the windows that looked down on one of the courtyards. "Meet a doppelganger, an artificiality, a fraud!" Its voice rose with each word until it was nearly a wail, though the ghost appeared unaware that it was happening.

"If it is a fraud," George suggested, "maybe you could prove it."

"That's right!" the ghost cried. "Where is he?"

"I think they went t' Mrs. Hanson's…" Hagrid began, but the ghost was gone before he could finish.

Harry and George were on their feet and out the door in an instant, racing down the hill to the Hogsmeade gate where they could disapparate.

xxxxxxxxxx


	14. Chapter 14 – Good Luck for a Porlock 4

**STORY NUMBER THREE: ****Good Luck for a Porlock – Part 4**

Mrs. Hanson's sitting room was in something of an uproar by the time Harry and George arrived. The clone lay serenely on the sofa, clearly having splinched once more. On a nearby low table, the pensieve, which Ginny had kept with her, contained a small, furious Snape, while the ghost hovered next to the coal grate on the other side of the room. Ginny and Gillian knelt by the clone which, on closer examination, had a nasty graze on its forehead.

Between the two incarnations of Snape an angry Mrs. Hanson stood guard, a warning finger up and wagging at the ghost. "…come int' my house and assault my guest! T' think I'd live t' see the day when my Russ would act like a common hooligan! And what would your poor dear mother say t' see the lad she raised so careful t' be polite and respectable behaving like such…" She heard the new arrivals and turned to face them. "Harry, how good of you t' come. And… George, wasn't it? We're having a bit of a tiff."

"I can see that," said Harry. "What happened?"

"Well, we were looking at the upholstery patterns and talking about color schemes – mostly me, Gillian, and Ginny, and here Russ comes" – she gestured at the ghost – "and without so much as a knock at the door, busts in and accuses…"

"I can't knock at the door!" the ghost shouted at her. "Ghosts can't knock!"

"Well, you might have rung the bell!"

"Ghosts can't ring bells either!"

Harry coughed, drawing attention to himself. "I'm afraid he's right, Mrs. Hanson. He can't manipulate anything physical, so he can't knock or ring. He can only come through the door."

"Oh," said Mrs. Hanson. "I suppose I'll have t' excuse you for that one. But that still didn't give you the right t' accuse poor Russ of theft and fraud and…"

"Excuse me," interrupted George. "Are they both Russ? This could get confusing."

"I'm Russ," the ghost declared. "At least to Mrs. Hanson. I always have been."

"So have I." Pensieve Snape spoke for the first time, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. "And since I am the living personality, while you are nothing more than the echo of an imprint, I'm the one who should retain the name."

"D' you want my opinion?" Mrs. Hanson planted her feet solidly on the floor, folded her arms as well, and stated firmly, "That poor young man on the sofa is more like my Russ than either one of you, and he's the one I'm giving the name to."

"Him!" both Snapes cried simultaneously, and then "He's not even conscious without me!" exploded from pensieve Snape, as the ghost screamed, "He's a partial mind in an artificial body!"

That brought a reaction. "I am not," pensieve Snape declared coldly, "a partial mind."

"No?" replied the ghost. "I'm not stupid, and I listen to what I hear. Do you remember your tenth birthday?"

"I know what happened," pensieve Snape insisted.

"Do you remember it?"

It was a problem pensieve Snape had been wrestling with for months. "Memory is nothing more than the crutch on which knowledge leans. If I know it, then it is 'remembered.' Only the weak need sensory images to convince themselves of the validity of their knowledge."

"Spoken like the Severus I know and miss," came Dumbledore's voice from the doorway. McGonagall and Hagrid had arrived, carrying the miniature portrait with them. "If no one objects, I propose that we call that one Severus."

"Lovely," said the ghost. "Who or what am I?"

"You're Professor Snape," Ginny answered. "You're the closest to who Professor Snape was when he died. You _are_ who Professor Snape was when he died."

"Which brings me back to my earlier point," said Dumbledore. "I think you should teach while you research answers. It would put you back into a milieu you are familiar with, it would give you assistants in your labors, and it would allow you to regain influence in a world that you have yet to be able to leave."

"I have been thinking," offered McGonagall, "that we have no prospective employees who could handle either the full curriculum of Potions or that of Defense against the Dark Arts. Why don't you take the fifth, sixth, and seventh years in both subjects? You'd prepare students for their OWLS, and you'd instruct the NEWT levels. We'd hire one new teacher for first through fourth Potions and another for first through fourth Dark Arts. By the time you were finished with your research and ready to move on, they would be ready to take over the upper classes. What do you think, Professor?"

With a howl of rage that had all but Dumbledore covering their ears, ghostly Professor Snape vanished from the room. McGonagall looked both embarrassed and peeved. "I thought he might appreciate an effort to accommodate his wishes," she said, her nostrils pinched in her effort to control her irritation. "Did he not always want to teach Dark Arts?"

"The question," advised George, "is where did he go? And quite frankly, most of you should stay out of the search."

"Listen, young man," rejoined McGonagall, "if you are implying that you know Severus better than I…"

"I'm Severus," the pensieve image reminded her, "and I say good riddance. If all that was left in the body was the bit that becomes a ghost, then I'm not missing anything important. Let him go."

"He needs help," Ginny countered. She was dabbing at the graze on the clone's forehead.

"He's hurting, and hurting badly," agreed Mrs. Hanson.

"I think I know where he went," Harry offered, "but I don't think anyone should follow me." With that he disapparated directly out of Mrs. Hanson's sitting room. The only one who followed was George, and the two ended up side by side outside the little worker's cottage at the end of Spinner's End.

"Is that where he lived?" George asked. "I'd have expected something more… posh."

"No. Working class all the way." Harry moved forward, checking for new protective spells, but ghosts can no more cast spells than they can operate doorbells. The way was clear, and Harry opened the front door and went in, George right behind him.

"What are you doing here?" Professor Snape's ghost demanded from beside a bookcase. "You have no permission to be in my home."

"It isn't your home," Harry reminded him. "Hogwarts is its custodian now."

"Where are my books?"

"In the library under Madam Pince's care. You couldn't have read them here anyway."

The ghost glanced around him, forlorn and lost. "Who killed him?" he asked after a moment.

"He killed himself. Even though I warned him that I was master of the Elder Wand, he tried a Killing Curse with it. The wand could not attack its master, and the curse rebounded on him."

Professor Snape stepped forward, puzzled. "How could you be master of the Elder Wand? I killed him at his request, without a duel. He should still have been master. The wand should have had no living master. That was the Dark Lord's big mistake."

"No," said Harry. "What no one knew but me was that Draco disarmed Dumbledore before you got there. Draco was master of the Elder Wand until I disarmed Draco early in 1998. I warned… Him. He wouldn't believe me."

"How many…?" The ghost hesitated. "How many did we lose?"

"Over fifty. Lupin and Tonks both died." Harry knew those two would be the worst blow. After that, the other names would be easier.

"And Pettigrew?"

"Died earlier. He showed compassion, an unforgivable mistake."

The ghost turned its back. "So none of us are left."

"None. Well, you're left. You're the voice of that generation."

"Don't patronize me. You have the midget in the pensieve."

At this point, George was faster on the uptake than Harry. "We don't know how real he is," he pointed out. "He didn't show up for months – not until after all those memories were locked in soulstone. The only way we'll find out which of you is the real one is if you get together and compare notes. Maybe he's a fake. Or maybe you're both real. Believe me, we all want to find out."

"The only thing is," Harry went on after George was through, "that your alter ego is living in your grandmother's cottage – which he's rebuilt – and Mrs. Hanson is living with him. The villagers know, and they accept him. You're going to have to get used to it. There's a lot you're going to have to get used to. I want to help. I really do."

"Right," said the ghost, unconvinced.

"And of course," added Harry, "you're the only one who can tell me about my mother. You remember Lily, right?"

"You mean Tom Thumb hasn't already done that?" sneered the ghost. "What's the point of having all my memories if he doesn't show them to you? If you've set out to demonstrate that my presence is unnecessary, you're doing a bang-up job." He headed for the kitchen, stepping carefully around the furniture in the way, not having yet gotten accustomed to simply walking through it. Harry and George followed.

"Okay," said Harry. "Cards on the table. We dug you up for his sake, the personality in the clone. He's quite nice, you know."

"Proof positive he isn't really me, wouldn't you say?" Professor Snape was looking out the dingy window into the area yard.

"Actually, when they're separated, the one in the pensieve can be pretty nasty. It's when they're together that they're nice. They're having trouble staying together. We think it's because he keeps putting things he doesn't want to remember into bottles, so he's too fragmented. Then there was you. Something stayed in the body that died, and he was afraid it might be an essential part, so…"

"So you dug me up. Otherwise, I'd never have been set free. I suppose I'm expected to feel grateful for that."

"Do you have any idea what you're going to do?" asked George. "Because I could use a scary ghost in the joke shop. And believe me, you'd scare the poop out of anybody."

"Thank you for the testimonial, Weasley. I think I'll pass." The ghost turned to face them, leaning back against the window sill, its silvery hands about a quarter inch into the wood. "Do you happen to know what they've done with me?"

Harry shook his head, pulled a chair away from the table, and sat down, George following suit. "Professor Flitwick was taking care of it," he said. "We came right after you, so we haven't talked to him about it."

"You said something…" Professor Snape hesitated, "about burying again."

"Yeah." Harry leaned forward. "Your grandmother. You know they were Imperiused, right? Well, a couple spent time in jail, and everyone felt really bad about what happened, so they've welcomed you back into the village. You rebuilt her cottage – really rebuilt, not just transfigured – and you're brewing potions. There's been a few strange things like bowtruckles and a porlock, and you've healed horses. Lots of people remember your grandmother, and some still remember when your mother was a girl, and they've been telling you about it. Oh, and the chapel is Church of England now, so there's a plan to bring your grandmother and mother home to the village – your father, too – and you, of course, to bury there, and…"

"Nobody's been talking to me." The ghost turned to look out the window again at the boarded up rear of the house opposite. "They've been talking to the midget and the clone." He stared up at the ceiling. "What did Hagrid mean when he said my being here would help them with the Ministry? I didn't understand that."

"That?" said George. "That's just because the Ministry found out about him when they had to destroy another manifestation of You-Know-Who, and there was this trial where they decided he wasn't really human, so he'd have to become a ward of the Ministry, but Harry here helped him fake a suicide, so technically he's your nephew now, not you. If everybody knows you're the real ghost, it'll be easier for him to be your nephew. They won't be dragging him down to the Ministry and locking him up."

"Why is Mrs. Hanson living with him?" The ghost still looked out the window, but the question was clearly important.

Harry took over. "He can't do much magic without being noticed, so he got a bicycle. The first person he wanted to visit was her. He told her he was your son, I think. Turns out she's known all along that your mum was a witch, so eventually she learned the real story. If you go outside and walk around, you'll see it's pretty deserted here, and she was all alone, so that's when he started seriously rebuilding the cottage, so she could have a nice place to live with good people around her. She's just moved in, and they're getting to the decorating part, but I don't think they've made any decisions yet."

"You said something about a memory I destroyed…"

"That time when Vold…y came back and you had to return to him. At the Riddle estate. With Macnair. He – the midget – and I went into that memory looking for something, and he went berserk, he hated Voldy so much. He kind of ripped the memory apart from the inside."

"Like the laboratory," the professor whispered.

"I don't know about any laboratory," said Harry. "I just know I was scared. It was so much power."

"Look," said George, "you need a place to think. Come back with me to Diagon Alley and cause a panic. It'll be fun."

"I'm tempted," the ghost replied, "but I think first I have to apologize to Mrs. Hanson."

They walked from the last house in Spinner's End to Mrs. Hanson's, to find that pensieve Severus had been replaced into Russ's body and was sipping tea and eating biscuits. "Oh, there you are," he said when Harry, George, and the Professor walked in. The Professor didn't exactly walk, having figured out the whole business of gliding on the way and looking considerably more ghostly as a result.

"You're looking better," he said to Russ. "You look like I did when I was–"

"Seventeen. We haven't figured out yet why I'm this age. When I splinch into the pensieve, I look more–"

"Twenty-four or twenty-five. I noticed." The ghost located Mrs. Hanson and glided over to her. "I wish to apologize," he told her, "for causing a scene in your home. You were quite justified in being upset with me."

"That's all right, dear," Mrs. Hanson replied. "You had a lot t' deal with all at once like that."

"I understand this is no longer your principle domicile."

"No. I've moved in with Russ. He's remodeled, but we haven't gotten around t' decorating yet."

"Remodeled?" the Professor rounded on Russ. "My grandmother's cottage wasn't good enough for you?"

Russ shrugged. "She suggested it herself, in a dream, and then Mrs. Wainwright told me she'd never really been happy with it."

"Who's Mrs. Wainwright?" The Professor sat down, leaning back slightly and crossing his right leg onto his left knee, except there was no chair where he was sitting.

"An old muggle friend of Nana's. They were about the same age. She remembered things that Nana 'd said she'd like to change. She helped me redesign the cottage."

"The garden is still there, though," added Gillian. "That hasn't changed at all."

"You should come see it," said Mrs. Hanson. "I think you'd like it there."

"I don't think I'm quite ready," the ghost admitted. "Besides, I've got another offer for the day that I may accept." He glanced over at George. "Could we stop at the Ministry of Magic, too?" he asked.

"That's a great idea!" Harry cried. "I know a couple of people…"

"Wait. Is there anyone there who knows the truth?"

"Paul Hooper. You saw him already, and he works in Creature Control. And Robards. He's head of the aurors now. He knows the suicide was fake, but he doesn't know where you're living."

"I'm not 'living' anywhere yet," the Professor reminded him. "In fact, I'm not 'living' at all. You really do have to learn to keep this straight, you know."

"I take it," sniffed McGonagall, who came out of the kitchen at that moment, "that you're not returning to Hogwarts."

"Not right away. I'm planning on stirring things up in Diagon Alley. Want to come along?"

"I do," said Hagrid, sticking his head out behind McGonagall. "Wouldn't miss it."

McGonagall took Dumbledore back to Hogwarts with her. Ginny chose to return to Weetsmoor with Gillian, Russ, and Mrs. Hanson. Harry, Hagrid, and George conferred with Snape's ghost, then apparated to the Leaky Cauldron, passed through the pub, and entered the Alley, waiting in front of the stationary shop next to Flourish and Blotts bookstore for the ghost to join them.

The Alley was crowded with young scholars and their parents, for the Hogwarts letters had arrived a little over a week earlier, and half wizarding Britain was buying school supplies. Most of them, both parents and students, would know Professor Snape, having either gone to school with him or studied under him. Harry acknowledged greetings from a wide range of people who recognized him, and felt a rising sense of anticipation as he waited for Snape's arrival.

"He is coming, ain't he?" Hagrid asked after a few minutes.

That question was answered a second later as a rather portly blonde witch left Flourish and Blotts with three children in tow, ranging from second through sixth year. A silky voice spoke from behind and to her left. "As I live and breathe, Mina Alderton? Or is it Higgs now? You haven't changed a bit."

The woman turned, but saw nothing in the bright sunlight. The voice continued, "Advanced Potions? Oscar never was good at Potions, and I can't believe he got an Outstanding on last year's OWL. Since that is what he will need for NEWT levels this year, it's a simple waste of money." Snape moved into the building's shadow, letting the woman see his silvery form.

Wilhelmina Higgs, nee Alderton screamed and dropped the newly purchased books, the wrapping paper bursting open and sending them sliding across the cobblestones.

"Oh, come now," hissed Snape in a thoroughly sinister tone, "you knew I was dead. It was in all the papers. But then Daddy writes for the _Prophet,_ doesn't he? No wonder you didn't get the news. Here, let me help you."

Mrs. Higgs was bending down to retrieve one of the books, and Snape put his spectral hand right into hers. She snatched the hand back as if it had been burned. "Don't touch me, you… you…"

"Half-blood? You never had any trouble saying it before. You're wrong of course. Now I'm more of a no-blood." Snape chuckled evilly. "I'm serious about Oscar. He can kiss NEWT Potions good-bye. NEWT Dark Arts, too. Unless he wants to be the specimen we turn into a mummy."

Oscar was fuming. "You can't talk to my mother…"

"No? Shall we go into detail about the cute little muggle-born Hufflepuff you were 'tutoring' under the stairs in third year? Did she tell you the passionate owls you sent her in fourth year got her locked up by the Dark Lord's purity police? Has she said one word to you since?"

"Muggle-born!" cried Mrs. Higgs. "No son of mine…"

"So now you're accusing St. Mungo's of switching babies on you? My, my. I wonder who got the real one if Oscar's not yours." The ghost rose above her head and began slowly spinning. "Sleep with one eye open this year, Oscar," it said. "I can't sleep, so I'll be patrolling Slytherin at two in the morning." With that, still spinning, it entered Flourish and Blotts, passing through several customers en route, customers who collided with each other in their efforts to get away. The Alley outside had already attracted curious spectators, and word was moving through the shops of the phantasmic apparition.

Harry, George, and Hagrid pushed their way into the book shop where Snape was not hard to find. He was hovering over a central display area, still rotating slowly. "Look, Potter, I can create a vortex. Do you think it can transmit energy?" the ghost called down to them.

"I don't know," Harry called back. "I thought only poltergeists could affect the world around them, not ghosts."

"We're going to have to discuss this with Flitwick," Snape called back. "I might not be a normal ghost!" With that he began to rotate faster and faster until he was becoming a blur, then he extended his arms. Books flew from the shelves, raining down on customers and gawkers alike, causing a general rush for the doors and getting very close to George's wished-for panic.

"Way to go, Professor!" George cried. "Do you know where Wizard Wheezes is?"

"Second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning!" Snape hollered down at him, then he jackknifed, skimmed over the heads of the crowd, and was out the door, heading for number 93.

Snape got there first, since Harry, George, and Hagrid had to battle the August rush. They watched the specter dive through groups of hysterical shuddering shoppers, creating havoc in its wake. "Blimey!" George gasped, struggling to make headway, "Why didn't he ever do stuff like this while he was teaching. It'd 've been so cool!"

"I think he had to be dead first," Harry laughed back.

Hagrid said nothing, but Harry sensed a deep sadness in him and toned his own response down out of sympathy.

As the three neared Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, they were greeted by another small crowd and by Ron, who was out in the street, anxious and distraught. "I couldn't stop him," Ron wailed to George, grabbing his older brother by the shirt. "He just came in off the street and started tearing up the store. I tried, I did, but I couldn't stop him."

From inside the shop came the sound of things falling and crashing.

"That's all right," George reassured Ron. "It's my fault. I set him on to it." He approached the door cautiously and peeked in. "Are you gonna be chucking stuff at me, or is it safe?" he asked. The noise from the interior died down.

"No chucking," Snape's ghost sighed. "I'm afraid I've made a mess. This telekinectoplasmic energy is hard to control. And a bit addictive. I may have… been over stimulated by it."

"I'd say so," agreed George, stepping gingerly across a floor littered with fake wands, punching telescopes, daydream charms, detonators, fireworks, and quantities of candies that would swell your tongue, make your nose bleed, give you a fever, or turn you into a large yellow bird. He pulled out his wand and began putting the merchandise back on the shelves. "So are you going to do it?" he asked.

"Do what?" said Snape, hovering near the ceiling. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Teach. Be head of house. That's what you meant when you said Oscar needed an Outstanding to take NEWT Potions, wasn't it? Slughorn only requires Exceeds Expectations. That's what Ron says."

"Does he?" the ghost settled cross-legged on the countertop. "I guess that is what I meant." He sighed. "Do you know that when I was a student I couldn't imagine a worse fate than that of Professor Binns – to be locked for all eternity, teaching at Hogwarts. Then I had to take a job from Dumbledore in order to stay out of Azkaban, and I thought, 'There, I'm just as sad as Binns.' Little did I know what the future would hold."

"No," George reminded him. "You're different. First, you know you're dead. Then, you have other places to go, other things to do. If you wanted to chuck the teaching job, you could do it, and no one could stop you. You're only taking it to be where you can do research, after all. You're freer now than when you were teaching and scared of Azkaban."

Snape perked up a little at that. "You're right. I'm a free agent. What are they going to do? Throw me in jail? Do you know, Weasley, I know why Professor Binns could never remember anyone's name."

"'Cause he was absent minded?"

"No. Because he was a ghost and couldn't shift the pages of parchment to see the roll lists. McGonagall remembered that he needed help the first day, and he always got that right. But she forgot that he needed it every day. I think it was ruddy brilliant of him to remember what letter each student's name started with having only looked at the roll lists once. I couldn't do it."

"You know, Professor, I never thought of it that way. You're right."

"And…" continued Snape, "he remembered the entire curriculum without the help of books or notes because he couldn't turn the pages of books or notebooks. He had to go with what remained in his mind. Ruddy genius, that Binns."

"You're converting me, Professor," George laughed, opening the door to let Harry, Ron, and Hagrid in. "Binns is the best in Hogwarts."

"All right," said Harry, "what were you eating or drinking just now, because the two of you have just gone barmy. How could Binns be the best?" Snape and George explained, and Harry was forced to agree. Even Ron was forced to agree.

"This being a ghost business," Ron observed. "It sucks eggs."

"For once, Weasley," said the ghost, "I heartily concur." He looked at Harry. "I want to go to the Ministry. Now, if possible."

"Any particular reason?" Harry asked.

"Nothing definite. Harass Shacklebolt. He never did like me. He was always telling Dumbledore why I wasn't to be trusted. I'd like to confer with Robards, too. He was always straight with me."

"Was he really the prosecutor at your trial?" Harry hesitated, put off by the ghost's glare. "That's what I was told," he finished lamely.

"Then you were told correctly. And, considering that he didn't believe me, he was very fair. He could have destroyed me; instead, he accepted a deal. It was only later that I realized how much he accepted from Dumbledore on faith."

"Yeah," said Harry. "That tallies with what I've been told. Look, I expect you could go anywhere you wanted, but if George and Hagrid come, I have to take them through the visitor's entrance. Do you know where that is?"

"The Maxwell Smart phone both?" Snape asked, then rolled his eyes at Harry's blank look. "And you grew up in a muggle household. I swear, Potter, the accumulated ignorance of the present generation boggles the mind. The whole phone booth entrance thing was stolen from a muggle television show, and an American one at that. You can't imagine that wizards would have thought of it? The level of creativity in the average British wizard is less…"

"Hey!" George protested. "Mind who you're talking to!"

"I have yet," said Snape ominously, "to examine your entire product line. There may be less here than appears at first glance."

"No," Harry declared emphatically. "Ministry first, wheezes later. Professor, we'll meet you either at the phone booth or in the atrium. You pick. If you're not there when we get to the phone booth, then we'll head straight to the Atrium."

Snape simple vanished. Harry, George, and Hagrid made their way out of Diagon Alley by way of the Leaky Cauldron and from there the short distance to the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic. There Snape was waiting for them. They squeezed – and for Hagrid the squeeze was considerable – into the booth, Harry dialed the magic number, and they descended. Harry was fascinated by the fact that the descent was most difficult for the ghost. If Snape stood still, the little booth went past him, leaving him far above. In order to go down with the booth, Snape had to consciously descend at the same rate as it was going. He was not patient enough and, with a wail, left the others behind to head straight for the Atrium, where he was waiting when they arrived, a little crowd of wizards already gathering near him.

The Atrium was more or less as Harry had first seen it the summer before his fifth year. Only the center was different, for the fountain area was roped off and there were no statues. The Ministry had been far more concerned with getting bureaucracy back to normal than with decorative effects, and in any case, Shacklebolt was not eager to unleash another example of propagandistic bad taste on the wizarding world. Several designs had been proposed and rejected, not least of which was a larger than life statue of Harry striking Voldemort in the chest with a bolt from his wand as the enormous spirit of Dumbledore applauded overhead. Harry had been particularly pleased when Shacklebolt nixed that one.

The security desk was in its old place, only this time the security wizard recognized Harry. "Visitors, Mr. Potter?" he asked, squinting at their badges. "To see Mr. Robards. Does he know you're coming."

"I'm sure you'll tell him," said Harry, stepping aside as the wizard reached for George's wand. That wand's vital statistics were noted, followed by Hagrid's, the security wizard being a bit put out that he was measuring an umbrella.

"Not regulation. Not regulation at all," he informed Harry sourly.

And then it was Snape's turn.

"Where's your badge?"

"Potter's got it."

"You can't have someone else carry your badge. You've got to wear it yourself."

"I can't wear it. I'm a ghost."

"There's no exceptions. Tell him to give it to you and put it on."

Snape held out his left hand. Harry came up behind him and placed the badge on his palm. The badge fell through Snape's hand onto the floor.

"There's a fine for littering," said the wizard. "Pick that up, please."

"Potter, pick that up."

The wizard glared. "No," he said. "You dropped it; you pick it up."

"Okay," said Snape. He bent down and ran his hand under the badge, then lifted it. The badge remained firmly on the floor. Snape tried using two hands as a scoop, to the same effect. Then he lowered himself downward until the floor was level with his chest and tried pushing up against the badge, which simple went through him. Meanwhile, a small line had formed. Snape was beginning to smirk. George was turning purple.

"Are you going to pick that up or not?" asked the wizard. "People are waiting."

"I'll tell you what," said Snape, "if you can pick it up and pin it on me, I'll write a glowing letter of commendation to your supervisor."

That got him another glare, but the wizard did step forward to pick up the badge. Pinning it on was another matter. The poor man's hand slipped into the cold ghost, and he dropped the badge on the floor again in shock.

"I'll carry this," said Harry, scooping up the badge.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," said the security wizard. "It's nice to know _some_ people respect the rules."

"Oh boy, has he got you pegged wrong, Potter," said the ghost.

"Wand," said the wizard.

"What wand?" Snape asked.

"Your wand. I have to register it."

"I'm a ghost. I don't carry a wand anymore."

"You're a wizard. You have to have a wand."

"Have and carry are two different things. Let's send Potter here to get it out of my coffin. Then you can measure it. Be careful, though. It's probably coated with the slime of decaying tissue."

They locked stares and Snape won. The security wizard waved them through with Harry carrying Snape's badge. Behind them they heard the next witch in line say, "You let him through without a badge. Discrimination against the living, that's what it is."

"I will say one thing," said Snape as they made for the elevators. "It was a lot more fun this time than it was eighteen years ago."

The ride up in the elevator to level two was almost as bad as the ride down from the phone booth – 'almost' only because the cab was slightly larger and could accommodate more of Hagrid with less squeezing. This time Snape did his best to stay even with them as they ascended.

"Now let me get this straight," he said, addressing Harry as the authority in the matter. "I was incarcerated for weeks, then declared not to be fully human. I was allowed out under guard, and during one such excursion I took my own life by jumping off a cliff into the ocean. My body was never found."

"Perfect," said Harry. "Nobody needs any more detail, and you don't have to lie to Robards because he was in on it."

"But not Shacklebolt?" the ghost asked.

"Not that I know of," Harry assured him. "The hierarchy of the Ministry was rather fluid at the time, and Robards figured out some way to justify his own silence."

"That's the problem with a conscience and a sense of duty," Snape observed. "You have to justify your actions to yourself. A person with no conscience never has to worry about it."

"How did you justify your own actions to yourself, sir?"

"I am flattered. You're presuming I have a conscience."

"I know you do." The elevator doors opened just as Harry said this, leaving no time for Snape to think of a riposte.

News of their arrival had been sent ahead, for a little congregation of aurors and other employees of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement hung around the elevator area. When Harry and company exited the lift, several of the spectators turned and hurried off on some seemingly just remembered urgent business.

"That's right, you pack of jailers!" Snape yelled after them. "Run like dogs! Because if I ever get inside you, I'm going to freeze your pancreases to your transverse colons! And serve you right!"

"Wait," Harry whispered, "how do you know those were the ones?"

Snape shrugged silvery shoulders. "Elementary, my dear Potter. The innocent do not run in terror from the unarmed. If I had a wand, I'd expect a more general exodus. As it is…"

"Good point," said Harry.

With the decorum that befitted the head of the aurors, Robards was waiting for them in his office. He was a little taken aback at the sight of an irrefutable ghost, but managed to cover it well. "Please come in and sit down," he told the group, and to Snape he said, "It is all right if we sit, I hope. It isn't uncomfortable for you?"

"I'm fine," said Snape, seating himself next to Hagrid, but without bothering to ask for a chair. "It's amazing what I'm learning to do in such a short time."

"I can see," Robards replied, settling into an easy chair rather than go behind his desk. "I must say I'm surprised it took you so long to appear. It's been what? Well over three months…" He managed not to look at George as he spoke.

"It's okay," Mr. Robards," Hagrid told him. "George here knows everything. He's met the other one, and just today we dug up the old coffin back from '98, and…"

"Guess who was inside," George laughed.

"Inside a coffin? For well over a year? How did that happen?" While Harry explained, Robards watched the ghost. When he had the whole picture, he said, "How are you going to hide the fact that you're not soaking wet and dripping seaweed?"

Snape nodded appreciatively. "I've been thinking about that myself. The simplest explanation is that since the personality and the cloned body were never truly joined, when the body was destroyed, the 'spirit' that was released was the original one, from the body that died in the Shrieking Shack."

"Makes sense," said Robards. "Where have you been for more than a year?"

"I got confused," the ghost answered. "I had no idea why I was by the sea. I wandered there for ages seeing no one but muggle picnickers."

"Then we dug his original body up," Harry continued, "and the ghost was drawn to it. We don't know why he isn't tied to one spot either, but we're going to investigate it. There are precedents."

"It sounds like you have an excellent cover story." Robards looked around at the sound of a slight knock at the door as a secretary entered.

"Excuse me, sir, but I thought you might like to know there's a news team from the _Prophet_ in the Atrium. They'd like to interview, eh, Professor Snape."

"I don't want to talk to the _Prophet,_" said Snape. "I mean, there are things I'd like to say to the _Prophet,_ but I don't want to 'talk' to them."

"Think of it as 'using' them to your own advantage," Robards suggested. "The Ministry does it all the time. We feed them what we want them to dispense to the general public."

"Is that why they're always getting things wrong?" George asked.

"No." Robards smiled. "You can lay that to sloppy reporting."

"The most untrustworthy thing about reporters," added Snape, "is that they have a vested interested in there being a story. Face it, the best thing for a community is if nothing bad happens and everyone gets along swimmingly. But you drop a reporter in, and the reporter has to 'find' something. So the reporter takes a perfectly normal event, twists and distorts it, then gets everyone at it with each other, and bingo! happy community destroyed over nothing. But the reporter has a story. A pox on reporters."

"On the other hand," Harry put in, "if someone's covering up something that shouldn't be covered up…"

"Well there, they're just doing their job, and more power to them," Snape agreed. "But I still don't trust them. Not with my life."

"Nor yer death neither," said Hagrid. "'N certainly not with the other one's life."

"Oh!" Snape grinned evilly. "That's right. I could set them on him."

"Righto!" cried George before anyone else could speak. "Get him for being so uppity! And that Hanson woman, too. I bet it'd be fun for you to send her back to the isolation pits…"

"Wait a minute," the ghost interrupted. "What isolation pits are you talking about? That just sounds silly."

"Well that house she lived in," George shot back at him. "No neighbors and no friends. It's what she deserves. The cheek of the woman! Finding someone else to watch the telly with of an evening. And you not even cold in your grave!"

"The thing in the grave was cold enough, I assure you," Snape's ghost said evenly, "but my grandmother's cottage never had the electricity laid on for a television, and what would a pureblooded halfwit like yourself know about a telly anyway?"

"He's thinking of getting solar panels so Mrs. Hanson can have her television," Harry burst in. "It'll use up all the savings he has, but he wants her to be comfortable. He remembers how good she was to him as a boy."

"How would you know that?" the ghost demanded.

"He talks to me. More when he's together, of course. The one in the pensieve, by himself he's obnoxious and arrogant. When you put them together, they make a decent human being."

"The one," continued Hagrid, "as 's been studying it most is that Mrs. Latimer. Don't know as she's got all the answers, but she sure do seem t' have the right questions."

Harry moved in for the coup de grace. "And he was the one that wanted to dig you up. He could feel there was something missing. And he was right."

"All right," sighed Robards as the seconds ticked into moments without the ghost responding. "Now that we have that ironed out, what do we do about the reporters? Send them packing?"

"Nah," George said with a grin. "Just handle them the way we always handled Mum. If we wanted to throw the blame on someone else, we'd dramatize everything. If we'd done what we wanted and were waiting for it to die down, we'd make it boring. Nothing chases them away like trying to force them to listen to a boring story."

xxxxxxxxxx

"We are ever so pleased that you gentlemen and -women of the press decided to pop in," Robards said later to a small gathering in the atrium as cameras clicked and flashed. "As you are all now aware, the wizarding world has been fortunate to retain the spirit of the late departed and lamented Professor Severus Snape, one of the heroes of the war against the evil wizard Voldemort. We have not yet figured out the details, the case being unusual, but it would seem the original division between the spirit and mind which occurred in the Shrieking Shack before the professor's first death, which was exasperated by a containment spell restricting the movement of the spirit from the newly dead body, led to the confinement of a portion of the professor's ectoplasm within that body while another segment of his personality was imprisoned within a pensieve. You all know about the unfortunate suicide of that other portion together with its clone body. That is old news. What is new is that our well beloved Harry Potter… [mild applause at this point] …in a charitable desire to reinterred the remains of Professor Snape on the grounds of Hogwarts, has released the contained spirit, who has accepted the gracious offer of Hogwarts's headmistress to rejoin the staff and teach Potions…"

At this, several of the reporters left. One of the few remaining asked the ghost how he was, to be told "Fine. Under the circumstances, as well as could be expected," after which the rest of the reporters dispersed. As news, the event was a dud.

A little before five that evening, Harry Potter apparated to the lawn in front of Snape's cottage. Seeing movement in the garden, he went there first, where he found Russ busy weeding a large patch of different types of thyme.

"So?" said Russ, not looking up, "How is it going?"

"Not as bad as I feared," Harry replied, settling onto the ground next to the kneeling Russ. The scent of herbs was heady, and he took a deep breath before continuing. "He's adapting quickly."

"Quicker than I did, I imagine," was Russ's bitter reply.

""That's for certain. But then, he's known for more than a year that he's a ghost. He just had to get out of that coffin. You didn't even know you were dead. If you look at it that way, you might be the one who adapted the fastest."

Russ didn't turn his head, but the trowel he was holding dug deeply into the earth. "When did you suddenly become a sympathetic human being?" he asked.

"What?" Harry countered. "It took you this long to notice? I thought I was doing pretty good the last few weeks."

"Sorry." Russ sighed. "What's going to happen now?"

"Oh, that? That's been decided. First, he wants to visit you here and sent me ahead to warn you. Then, he's accepted McGonagall's offer to teach Potions and Dark Arts for OWLS and at NEWT level. So he'll be at Hogwarts most of the time. He's still not comfortable with the idea that you're just as much him as he is, but I'll bet you're not either. And Robards is coming, too. Since it's now incontrovertible that Severus Snape is dead, seeing as he has a ghost, Robards thinks we can be more open about you, too."

"I don't know," said Russ. "What about the people here? What about all the violation of wizarding secrecy laws? I agree with Gillian on this. If they're going to Obliviate people…"

"Robards thinks he has an answer for that, too. Believe it or not, it centers on your good constable. He wants to talk to you, then meet Hugh. Then he wants to argue the case before the Wizengamot. It has to do with gardens, and apple orchards, and bundimuns, and jobberknolls, a porlock, and a muggle who can use a wand. He can explain it better than I can, but he wants this village designated a… I don't remember what he called it, but that's what he wants."

"A reasonable sanctuary?" Russ asked, looking up and at Harry for the first time.

"Yeah. That was it. What is it?"

"A place where laws we don't understand might operate, requiring further investigation before taking action. I don't think it's ever been applied to human habitations before. The international wizarding world may object. It would be a violation of several agreements."

"Well, that's what Robards wants."

Russ shook his head. "It's a big risk," he pointed out. "It brings Weetsmoor to their attention. What if they reject the motion? Then everybody gets their memory wiped and I have to start all over again. What about me? What about Mrs. Hanson? What about Fred's horses and Sam's apples?"

"You can say no. Robards won't come unless I go back and say it's okay." Harry watched the bleak profile as Russ returned to his weeding, then played another card. "What do you think Mrs. Hanson would want? You hiding like a criminal forever, or you free to live and move about like a wizard should?"

"You leave Mrs. Hanson out of this!" Russ rose from his task to loom threateningly above Harry.

"Why? You brought her up first." Harry stood as well, and the two tried to stare each other down, equal height placing them eye to eye. "At least let him come and talk to people. You don't have to decide right now."

Focus shifted abruptly. "Is Hagrid coming?" Russ asked.

"No. He's gone back to Hogwarts."

"Mrs. Hanson's cooking extra in case Hagrid comes. That means there's plenty of food. Maybe you should tell Robards he's invited to dinner. You too, of course. I presume the… ghost won't eat."

"I'll tell them it's okay to come along," said Harry.

"And anyone else you think would be useful," Russ added. "I'll tell Mrs. Hanson."

Harry nodded and disapparated as Russ wiped off his trowel and went into the cottage.

xxxxxxxxxx

Mrs. Hanson remembered Gawain Robards. "Allergies," she reminded him. "You were interested in my allergies, 'specially the one t' oysters. You were a mite younger then."

"And you, Madam," replied Robards as he bent over her hand, "have not aged a day."

"La, but you are a one." Mrs. Hanson blushed a little, then retreated to the kitchen.

They gathered in the front room, as there were too many of them for the remodeled kitchen. Russ and Mrs. Hanson were host and hostess, and the guests were Snape's ghost, Robards, Harry, Ginny, George, Hermione, and Ron.

"Where's Thumbelina?" was the first thing out of the ghost's mouth when he arrived.

"You promised to be nice," Ginny hissed at him. "That wasn't."

"He's right here with me," answered Russ. "We're together again."

"You remind me of someone I used to know," the ghost smirked. "About twenty-two years ago, wasn't it? Isn't it convenient that cloney thing made you an adult instead of a minor? Otherwise you'd be a ward of the Ministry even if they did decide you were human."

"That's it!" Harry shrieked to the shock and consternation of all. "We couldn't figure it out! Are you sure that's you when you were seventeen? Are you sure he's not sixteen? Or eighteen?"

"Look at him," the ghost demanded. "Look at the skin on his face. He's shaving. I'd say maybe every other day or so. I didn't start that until after I turned seventeen. Then at eighteen my face changed – the adult face rather than the adolescent face. That's what I looked like at seventeen."

"That's a very significant point," chimed in Hermione. "The clone must have been meant to be an adult, and may have started at the exact moment of wizarding majority. That means you're several months into being seventeen. Are you going to grow older from the moment of your… your… – I don't know what to call it. It isn't birth, and it isn't…"

"How about incarnation?" Russ asked smirking back at the ghost. "Does that sound both unique and arrogant enough? And I don't know yet if I'm aging."

"It would help if you were," Robards said, his calm voice turning the moment into one of serious discussion. "The more normally you progress from this moment, the easier it will be to convince people that you're a relative, a totally separate and individual person. If you were stuck looking seventeen for the rest of your life, people would start to talk."

"Not here," Russ reminded him. "Here people understand what's happened."

Robards shook his head. "You sound like you want your existence to stay a secret. Do you like being cut off from most of the world?"

"Right now," said Russ, "this exact minute? Yes. I'd like it to stay this way."

"So would I," the ghost added. "If it were me, of course."

"It is you," Harry said. "Get used to it."

"I wonder," Ron mused reflectively, "if this is what Siamese twins feel like after they're separated."

"Whatever are you talking about?" Hermione snapped at him.

"Siamese twins." Ron rolled his eyes. "Honestly, 'Mione, it's got to be similar. You take a couple of guys who've been joined from birth, shared every memory, and then BLAM! you cut them apart so they can do things the other one can't see. That's got to feel weird."

"I hate to say it," George said, joining the discussion for the first time, "but the runt may have a point. The situation…"

"I'm not a runt! I'm taller 'n you…!"

"More of a 'ront' then, wouldn't you say?" the ghost offered to George, who seized the opportunity with glee.

"That's the way of it. We tried explaining the procreation cycle to Mum, but she didn't understand. Basically the first ones are experiments that gradually improve 'til you're at the peak of your performance. Then quality begins to decline with every subsequent birth. Mum obviously peaked at Fred, and from there it was downhill. Elongated and scrawny isn't top form."

"So my quality is past prime, then is it?" Ginny interrupted.

"Speaking from experience," Russ commented to the room in general, "and from an exclusively Potions point of view, I would say the cycle peaked at Fred and George, and from there deteriorated. I am sorry to have to be blunt, Miss Weasley, but…"

"…in this particular instance, the conclusion would seem to be clear," the ghost finished. "You did not have their talent."

The ghost considered its live counterpart. "I thought you couldn't remember things."

"Some things," Russ replied. "The ones I take out and put in the bottle. The whole pensieve/memory thing has turned out to be very useful."

"You delude yourself. You haven't totally rid yourself of the memory. There's always something left imprinted on the brain. It may exist entirely in the subconscious, but it's still there."

"Maybe not," interjected Hermione. "If you're talking about old memories, those memories had already been removed once, and the subconscious that the imprints would have remained on is now a ghost. Maybe they can't leave any more imprints. Maybe they really are gone as long as they're in the flask."

"No," Harry countered, "because when he's in the pensieve he 'knows' things that he can't remember. The way I understand it, he has an academic knowledge, but no recollection of feelings or images. Like I could tell you 1066, but I can't picture the battle at Hastings."

"What battle is that?" Robards asked.

"It's one of the important dates they make you learn in a muggle school," Hermione told him, as over to one side Ginny quietly took out a little notebook and wrote '1066 – Battle of Hastings' in it.

"That's odd," said Russ. "I mean, when I put things into the pensieve, I really can't remember them, and yet when he's in the pensieve, he can. At least he can remember the event, if not the feelings."

Robards leaned forward. "Two important points. First, do you really remember nothing, absolutely nothing, of the memories you've put into a… is it a bottle? Second, do you think of yourself as a separate person from the… what do we call him?"

"Severus," said Harry. "We've kind of decided to call him Severus."

"It does go with the appearance," Robards agreed. "Russ, the childhood name; Severus, the younger adult." He turned back to Russ. "Are you one person, or are you two separate people?"

A small, rueful smile flitted across Russ's face. "One, I guess," he shrugged, "because if he's not there, I'm not there either."

Mrs. Hanson appeared in the doorway. "It's all laid out on the kitchen table," she told them. "This is serve yourselves – a buffet sort of thing. You do your eating in here."

"Great," said Snape's ghost. "My idea of perfect bliss." He started to go to the west side of the front room, realized there was no longer a door there, headed for the door on the east side where he reached for a doorknob that slid past his hand, then walked straight through the wall without saying another word.

"He can't eat anything, then?" asked Mrs. Hanson. "Poor lamb. And I made chocolate fudge. He always did like it so." Her hand turned the knob, and she followed the ghost into the garden.

Harry rose to do likewise, but was stopped by Ginny. "You can't really think your presence would make things better, can you?" she said. "He is what he is, and no one can change it. He just needs time to get used to it. He hasn't been 'out' for even twelve hours yet." She then addressed the group in general. "We have to go into the kitchen to get supper. I suggest no one look out the window. They deserve a little privacy."

The table in the kitchen was loaded with good, solid food: roast chickens, biscuits with butter, minted peas, mashed potatoes, a tossed salad with vinaigrette, milk, tea, beer, all made with Hagrid in mind so there was more than enough for all. Russ had an air of melancholy about him as he dished out his food, and glanced out the window once or twice despite Ginny's precaution.

"Was this a favorite meal of yours?" Harry asked. He'd taken a peek into the garden as well and noted that the ghost was moving from the work shed down the slope to the little stream, Mrs. Hanson beside him. She was talking and pointing, showing him what they'd done with the place.

"Yeah," said Russ. "My mum was really good at making a chicken leg serve three people. Dinner with Mrs. Hanson was always a feast, and always something sweet at the end. Heaven."

Hermione looked down at her plate, loaded with food. "It's my fault, isn't it?" she said bleakly. "I condemned him to this. If I hadn't cast that first preservation spell, he'd have gone on that night. I wouldn't blame him if he hated me."

"You're being too hard on yourself," Robards told Hermione gently. "There was no way for you to know. There was no reason for you to suspect that your spell could contain a spirit."

"Would it?" George asked. "Seriously, if it was a normal death – minus all that thought spilling business – would 'Mione's spell have held him? Crikes, I wonder how many other ghosts are trapped in their coffins. We ought to go dig 'em all up, we ought. Just to be sure."

"George has a point," said Harry. "Would something that simple hold a ghost? Would even Professor Flitwick's spell have held a ghost under normal circumstances?"

"It would be nice," Ron pointed out, his mind running in its usual channels, "if we could figure out a way for him to taste the food. Ol' Severus in his pensieve really missed his kipper and coffee in the morning 'til you found a way to bring it to him."

"What way was that?" Robards asked. All their plates now being full, the group returned to the front room to balance crockery on their knees and enjoy the repast.

"I held it while I entered a pensieve memory he was in," Harry explained. "A shadow essence of the food went with me, and he was able to eat it. He really enjoyed it. I haven't thought about it since he joined Russ because now he can eat normally."

"Can ghosts enter pensieve memories like we can?" Ginny asked. "It would solve a lot of problems."

"I don't know," Robards said. "We could research it."

Harry laughed. "Why don't we just try our own experiment? We have a pensieve. We have a ghost. What else do we need?"

The mood in the front room lightened considerably, and the seven by mutual unspoken consent changed the conversation to other topics while they dined and waited for Snape's ghost and Mrs. Hanson to return.

That happened after about twenty minutes more. Snape entered the cottage first, not bothering to knock, which he wouldn't have been able to do anyway. Mrs. Hanson was right behind. "I'm starving, dears," she said. "Did you leave me anything?"

As Mrs. Hanson went into the kitchen for her own supper, Harry tried to explain the business of pensieve food to the ghost.

"That's silly," said Snape as soon as he grasped what Harry was saying. "Ghosts can't use pensieves."

"How do you know?" Ron demanded. "Has any ghost ever tried? And if you haven't tried, then you don't know."

Robards tilted his head to one side. "He has a point. Can you cite a source for your assertion that it's impossible?"

"Don't get technical with me!" the ghost shrilled, causing a general movement of hands to ears.

"I wish you wouldn't do that, Russ," said Mrs. Hanson from the doorway to the hall and kitchen. "I nearly dropped my plate, I did. It does hurt."

"Hurt? What hurts? Just because I object to Robards here trying to get me to…"

"No, dear. It's when you get all ghostly and wailing and mess with my eardrums."

"I wasn't wailing." Snape crossed his arms over his chest.

"You were, dear, and not for the first time. You were shrieking earlier, too. I'm sure you didn't realize it, but it was quite obvious t' us. I suppose it must be part of being a ghost, and maybe you can't help it, but we'd appreciate it if you could…"

"All right. I'll try not to do it. But this pensieve business…"

"Severus can do it," said Harry. "Earlier this year, before we got Russ, I used to bring him coffee, kippers, and a newspaper every morning at breakfast time. In the pensieve. It wasn't 'real' food any more than my presence in the pensieve memory was real, but he could feel it, and taste it. It helped. It made him feel more human, like a person again."

"Earth to Potter," said the ghost bitterly, "pensieves are corporeal. They are solid, material basins. The thought threads are also corporeal, otherwise the pensieve wouldn't be able to contain them. In case you haven't noticed, I do not interact with the corporeal. I'm a ghost."

"Except," Ginny reminded him, "we can feel you, and you can feel us. You're cold, and we're warm. That's an interaction, isn't it? If I were you, I would think it was worth a try. What have you got to lose?"

"If I knew what I had to lose," replied Snape's ghost, "I might be more inclined to risk the experiment. Can you honestly assure me that I have nothing to lose?"

"Now that makes no sense at all," exclaimed George. "What can a ghost lose? You're already dead. What else is there?"

"He could get trapped in the memory," Hermione ventured. "Don't all look at me like that! He could. The pensieve confines thought in a physical space. Its power could extend to other nonphysical things. Like ghosts."

"Do tell," said the ghost, looking smug. "Pray go on."

"Well…" Hermione sighed. "It sounds so Aristotelian, but the pensieve seems to separate the essence from the accident. It took the appearance, texture, odor, and smell of kippers into itself where Severus could consume them – he being equally an essence stripped from its accident – and left the flat physical form here, good for nothing but the trash bin. You, as a ghost, have already separated essence from accident – your body – so what would remain on this side as an anchor? Or is there a further split you could be subjected to that we don't yet know about?"

"Why are you trying to make this difficult?" asked Ron. "It sounded so simple before you started gabbing."

"Gabbing am I! Let me tell you, Ronald Weasley, if you can make one statement that shows you understood what I just said…"

George grabbed Ron's collar before he could lunge at Hermione. "Calm down little brother. No need to get your knickers in a knot. She's just being extra cautious because she's afraid of making another big mistake. She already stands accused of keeping him here."

Ron appeared mollified. "Well, if that's all it is…" he started.

"That's never all it is," said Snape's ghost. "She wants to dump you, and she's using me to get into an argument with you so that she'll have an excuse."

"That's not true, and you know it!" cried Russ. "Why can't you be nicer to people? They're both just trying to help. In their own way, of course. You're afraid, aren't you?"

"Let's go backwards about three steps," Snape's ghost replied. "Can you guarantee what I have or have not to lose in this venture? One can't calculate a bet without knowing the odds."

"What if Severus and I went with you?" Harry asked suddenly. "Would that…"

Russ was on him immediately. "Whoa! Why do I have to get involved in this? What if he traps both of you in there? What happens to me?"

This turn of the conversation seemed to give Snape immense satisfaction. "That's right, youngster. Stand in the way. Keep me from enjoying my temporal stay. You can eat food even if I can't – what else is important? Just never give me any of that sanctimonious rot about trying to help. It's all much simpler this way."

"Does that mean," Robards asked, "that if Harry and Severus accompanied you, you would attempt to enter a pensieve memory?"

"Eh…" the ghost waffled. "I don't think I said…"

"No, but you implied it!" George shouted in triumph. "You said if he didn't give up Severus, it was keeping you from…"

"I didn't mean that!"

"Then you shouldn't have said it!" Ginny was out of her chair confronting Snape's ghost like a fury out of Greek myth. "Accept the challenge, or stop complaining! Are you going in or not?"

"Shite!" the ghost shrieked. "Are you all against me? 'Ave you gott'a clue what yo'r ask…"

"Russ Snape! Watch your language!" Mrs. Hanson stood four-square in the doorway again. "Your mother would wash your mouth…"

"I'm Russ!" cried the youngest of the manifestations of Severus Snape. "That's the second time you've called him that, but it's supposed to be me…"

"Shut up!" the ghost spat at him. "She calls me that because she can see you're a sham and a…"

"WILL YOU BE QUIET, BOTH OF YOU!" Mrs. Hanson snapped at them. "You're both Russ. More at some times and less at others. The point is, we need t' find a way for the two of you t' be reasonably happy – or at least content – with what you have. Nobody's against you, and you shouldn't be against each other. Will doing this thing with the memory help? Might it help? That's all that's important."

"Yes, ma'am," said Robards calmly. "We think it would help."

"I have a memory," Harry announced, trying to forestall further discussion. "It's a perfectly ordinary, normal Sunday lunch where nothing special happened. You're not there because you were doing something in the Potions classroom, so you won't have to worry about there being another of you. I'll go in, and then you go in, and we'll see what happens. And," Harry snatched something from his plate, "I'm taking a piece of chocolate fudge with me."

That said, they brought out the pensieve. Harry extracted a memory strand from his head and, with a grin and a nod to everyone, bent down until his face touched the surface of the floating thought and he felt himself sucked into the memory.

It was relatively early in Harry's first year. He and Ron sat together at the Gryffindor table, eating and trying to work out an astronomy assignment. It was before Halloween, so they had not yet become friends with Hermione, who was working at another part of the table. Draco, too, was not an issue, for although Harry was already on the Quidditch team, he had not yet made that spectacular and miraculous catch of the Snitch in his mouth that would render him forever a target in Draco's eyes. The Great Hall of this memory was utterly serene.

Into that serenity, Snape's ghost burst like an avenging angel with wings spread and sword drawn, except that the ghost had neither wings nor a sword. Nor did he drop gently into the scene as Harry had. No, he shot down, diving and then skimming over the heads of the seated students – a reckless fighter pilot showing off for the crowd at a provincial air show. But… was it just Harry's imagination, or did some of the students glance around as if trying to identify an unfamiliar sound, barely heard in the distance?

"Well," said Snape, lighting down next to Harry at the rear of the Hall. "Here I am. I can get in. The next question is whether I can get out. Pass the fudge." He no longer looked exactly ghostly, having acquired more color and the decided appearance of solidity.

Harry passed the piece of fudge, which Snape was able to hold and take a bite of. His eyes widened in pleasure. "I can taste it," he said, not exactly to Harry, but to the ambience in general. "No wonder the midget was so docile. When you're locked in a tiny box, things like this become very important."

"He compared himself to a slave singing and dancing for his master," Harry admitted.

"And a small amount of defiance. I may have to accord him more credit than I thought. What do you think, Potter. Head to head, no holds barred, which of us would win?"

"I couldn't even begin to guess," said Harry. "You have such different talents."

"Really? He has talents?" Snape looked around. "What happens in this memory, Potter?"

"Nothing. It's just a Sunday afternoon."

"Let's liven things up, then." Snape glanced at the high table where McGonagall was sitting, Dumbledore seldom coming to the Great Hall for lunch. Most of the teachers were there, including Quirrell over on the left. "Oh look," Snape cried. "A bowl of fruit. I'm going to snitch a grape."

Harry said nothing, reasoning that the ghost would be forced to recognize its limitations soon enough. It was thus with immense surprise that he watched Snape approach the high table, seize a grape from the bowl, and pop it into his mouth. "Delicious," the ghost said.

"No, wait," Harry protested. "You can't do that…"

"Can't I?" Snape retorted. "Tell that to the grape." A sly gleam crept into his eyes. "Hey, Voldemort!" he yelled down the table, and Quirrell peered nervously around. "Watch this, turban-brain!" Snape stretched his arm over the table and swept it in Quirrell's direction. The fruit bowl crashed into a sandwich platter, which rammed a pitcher of pumpkin juice, all of it spilling onto the flagstones of the dais floor in a resounding commotion of broken crockery and clanging metal. All over the Hall students and teachers jumped to their feet in shock, clearly not able to see the ghost in their midst.

"What are you doing!" Harry shrieked. "You can't interact with a memory! You have no right to change my memories!"

"You think not?" Snape challenged him. "I just did, didn't I. Follow me out, Potter; I'm going to talk to Granger." With that, the ghost shot back up towards the ceiling, Harry right behind him.

The translucent, silvery ghost was already accosting Hermione when Harry emerged from the pensieve. "What kind of memory?" Hermione was saying.

"You. In the library studying. All day. Not even a lunch break. And don't give me that look Miss Granger; you used to do it all the time."

"What do you want to happen?"

"Nothing. You just study. Twelve hours of studying."

"You rat!" Harry yelled at him. "You just messed up my memory. Are you going to mess up the library, too?"

"Are you always like this, Potter, or is this an even slower day than usual? Think about it. If I can eat a grape in the Hall, then I can read books in the library."

"Wait a minute," Robards interrupted them. "What do you mean, he messed up your memory? An observer can't change a pensieve memory."

"Not even I can change a pensieve memory," Russ added, "and I _am_ a pensieve memory – or at least Severus is."

"He did." Harry was trembling slightly with anger. "I think the people in the memory could hear him. Not everything, but the louder bits, and then after he ate a grape from a bowl of fruit, he knocked a whole bunch of stuff on the floor, and people were jumping up and staring, and that wasn't in the original memory."

"I'd like to see this," said Robards. "Will you come back into the memory with me?"

Harry and Robards entered the peaceful Sunday Hall where students munched on sandwiches or fried chicken and chatted or did homework. Nowhere was there any sign of a disturbance. Harry led Robards over to the high table and the fruit in question. "There," he said. "He's going to eat that grape and then push all those dishes onto the floor.

They waited as minute after minute ticked away, and then Quirrell got up and scurried out of the Hall. At no time was there unusual noise. No one looked up in surprise.

"Is this the memory as it was when it left your head?" Robards asked quietly.

"Yes, but I swear he messed it up. He caused a noisy scene."

"It doesn't seem to have been permanent. This does, however, merit some study. I wonder if the other ghosts at Hogwarts can do the same thing. I doubt if anyone has ever thought to try it."

"Sir," Harry asked, "how did he enter the pensieve. Did he put his face to the surface like you and me?"

"No." Robards chuckled at the thought. "He put on a show. He rose up through the ceiling, then came diving straight down into the basin. Maybe that's the secret. He didn't send part of himself into the memory. That was his entire being."

"But it's Severus's entire being, too."

"No, it isn't. From what you've told me, when he's inside one memory, he has no contact with the others, even when they're in the same pensieve with him. Outside of Russ, he's permanently fragmented."

Harry agreed that Robards probably had the key to the mystery. They exited the pensieve to find the ghost making more demands. He was pacing the front room, ticking off ideas on his silvery fingers.

"I'll need a memory of my own office and bedroom, of course, one that lasts an entire night. You," he pointed at Russ, "will have to supply that one. Then one of sitting quietly by the lake for hours doing nothing. Hagrid can give me that one. Dumbledore's office – he's got lots of books up there, or at least had. Potter, you used to spend enormous amounts of time locked up with Dumbledore, you can give me that one. The Great Hall at breakfast, lunch, and dinner…"

"What do you need all this for?" Harry asked.

"Teaching at Hogwarts," replied the ghost. "When everyone else is feasting, I want to be able to feast, too. I want free access to the books I'll need to research my problem. I want to stand by the lake thinking and be able to feel the breeze and smell the pine trees. I want to find out if I can sleep after a trying day with a couple of hundred monsters. Really, do you think it's too much to ask?"

It was a small and utterly human thing to ask, and Harry felt himself catching the sense of excitement that was emanating from the ghost. Hermione had already caught it. "I can give an entire day in the infirmary if you need to check the medicines," she volunteered. "I spent enough time there as a cat."

"You could go to a Quidditch game!" Ron cried, getting into the spirit of things.

"He can do that anyway, little brother," George laughed, tousling Ron's hair to the latter's great annoyance. "One that he doesn't already know the end of."

The evening was wearing on, and shops in Diagon Alley would soon close. Snape and Robards left immediately to see if Robards could find a pensieve large enough for the memories the ghost wanted. It was touching to watch the eagerness of the ghost as it planned its new life, urging Robards to leave at once, not wanting to wait even another moment.

After they'd left, Ginny came to sit next to Harry while Mrs. Hanson served tea. "It must be wonderful," she sighed, "after all those hopeless months in that coffin, to suddenly find he has a… a life again."

"Do you know who he reminded me of just then?" Harry mused, putting an arm around her shoulders. "That porlock we found, right at the moment he realized there really were horses in Allsop's barn. Like someone who was lost and had just come home."

Ginny said nothing. Instead she snuggled closer and sipped her tea contentedly, for she had had the same thought.

xxxxxxxxxx

Here ends the third story.


	15. Chapter 15 – A Reasonable Sanctuary 1

**STORY NUMBER FOUR: A Reasonable Sanctuary 1**

_Wednesday, September 1, 1999_

Professor Severus Snape rolled onto his left side in his sleep and automatically pulled the bedclothes closer around him, snuggling deep into their warmth. He was dreaming – quite a pleasant dream really – about the Haymarket Theatre and a performance of _Antony and Cleopatra,_ except that Antony's sword had turned out to be spaghetti, while Cleopatra's asp insisted on flirting with the pigtails of a child in the front row. Next to Snape, Shakespeare kept repeating that it was wrong, and everyone was supposed to die, to which Snape responded with 'Why? Isn't living much more fun?' a sentiment with which both Antony and Cleopatra heartily agreed, and then Knotty was saying "Mister Severus? Is six o'clock, and Mister Severus is wanting to wake up now, please."

Snape rolled over, opened his eyes, and blinked at the house-elf. "Are you sure?" he yawned. "It feels more like five-thirty."

"Knotty is not supposed to pay attention to time in here," the house-elf reminded him. "Knotty is only supposed to pay attention to time outside. Outside is six o'clock. Mister Severus has to get up."

"Remind me what day it is." Snape yawned again and stretched luxuriously.

"Is September first, and Mister Severus has many things to do before the train arrives this evening."

"Drat," said Snape. "I knew it was too good to be true. Such a nice morning leading up to such a dreadful end. What did I have planned for the day?"

"We was going to Diagon Alley to order a few things," Knotty recited, "and then we was going to be sure the classrooms was set up for tomorrow. We has to inspect Slytherin house one last time and review the folders on the returning students because we doesn't know all of them. Then we has to consult with the new Potions and Dark Arts teachers to be sure they has everything they need. And then this afternoon," here Knotty beamed with considerable pride, "we has to play cribbage with Mister Filius because now Knotty knows what to do with the cards and the peggy things."

"You're right. We have a full schedule, and it all has to be completed before eight o'clock this evening." Snape threw back the covers and swung his feet onto the floor and into a pair of waiting slippers. "It's all right, Knotty, I'm up. I'd appreciate it if you had breakfast ready. We can inspect the classrooms and Slytherin house before we go to Diagon Alley. A more efficient use of time."

"Yes, Mister Severus," Knotty said, and disappeared up through the ceiling of the little bedroom.

Snape stood and padded over to the wash stand and mirror. For some reason he always checked to see if he needed to shave, even though he knew it was pointless. The morning ablutions were also pointless, but he washed face and neck anyway because it pleased him to feel the water on his skin. Just as it pleased him to shed pajamas and put on his academic robes – knowing full well that when he left his quarters he would be dressed in robes regardless – because it contributed to the illusion that he was normal.

Ready now for whatever the day would bring, Snape stepped out of his bedroom into his office and glanced toward the fireplace where his twenty-two-year-old self sat reading. _Thank goodness I used to spend nights studying that year after Lily died,_ he thought. _Sleeplessness then means I can sleep now. And it reminds me to remember her._ He paused a moment in reflection, then exited the memory.

Knotty was waiting. With a deft finger, he removed the night memory from Snape's pensieve and replaced it with a Great Hall breakfast memory. The ghost that was all that was left of the original Snape (well, not quite all, but Snape chose to ignore the existence of the other two as much as possible) dove back into the pensieve to sit at the high table early on a Sunday morning when most of the school was still in bed (memory courtesy of Hermione Granger), and regale himself with coffee, kippers, toast, fried mushrooms and anything else he wanted from a traditional English hunt breakfast. On this particular morning, he added a bit of stewed kidneys. _Odd,_ he mused, _how the knowledge that the pleasure of food can be so easily taken away makes it so much more enjoyable. Hagrid would be proud._

The only thing missing from the breakfast memory was the morning paper, and Knotty brought that in as soon as it arrived. "There's an owl waiting for Mister Severus, too," the house-elf informed Snape as he delivered the essence of the current copy of the _Daily Prophet._ "It doesn't want to give Knotty the letter. It says it has to see Mister Severus."

"Curious," said Snape. "Who would be sending an owl to me?" Unable to resist, he left the pensieve memory together with Knotty to accept his letter from the unknown owl. Except the owl was not unknown. The owl was, in fact, the biggest shock Snape had encountered in nearly a month.

There, sitting calmly on the back of the chair behind Snape's desk was his deceased grandmother's old owl Nelson. "Where did you come from?" Snape gasped.

_"Hoo,"_ said Nelson in reply.

Knotty moved forward to take the message the owl now clutched in the claws of one foot, but Nelson knew his duty, took the envelope in his beak, rose, and glided to the other side of the office. Letters were private. To be read by addressee only.

"It's all right," Snape explained. "that's what he's here for. I can't read it by myself because I can't hold it or open it. Nelson, this is Knotty; he's a Hogwarts house-elf. He looks like a demented beggar and potential pickpocket – they all do – but he's really quite dependable. Knotty, this owl looks so much like my grandmother's owl Nelson that I'm sure they're related. He won't have had much contact with the wizarding world, however, so he's probably never seen a house-elf before."

"Knotty is pleased to make the acquaintance of Nelson," said the elf politely.

_"Kew-wick,"_ Nelson replied, and released the letter to Knotty's long fingers.

Knotty deftly slit open the envelope and laid the short note on the desk for Snape to read. It was from Mrs. Hanson.

_Dear Russ,_

_We've finished the wiring and the decorating, so the telly's working and the cottage looks more like a home than when you saw it last. We're hoping you'll approve, so we'd love it if you came to the housewarming on Sunday around noon. There will be people you know and also a couple of the villagers who knew your gram and your mum when she was a girl. I'll be baking all sorts of things, so you can bring that pensy of yours, or you can use ours. We're looking forward to seeing you again._

_Kate Hanson_

"My, my," Snape said to no one in particular, "a party. What shall I wear? I know, I'll dress as a ghost. And how does she expect me to carry a pensieve? Dear Mrs. Hanson, are you prepared for a house-elf?"

"Sir," whispered Knotty, "house-elves is not supposed to show themselves to muggles. Is not right."

"Don't worry," Snape assured him, "we'll get you a dispensation. Right now you need to get a piece of parchment and a quill…" – Knotty snapped his fingers and they materialized in front of him – "…right. Take this down: Dear Mrs. Hanson. Forgive my not writing myself, this being the best I can do. I would enjoy very much seeing what you have done with the cottage and shall be there Sunday at noon. I look forward to meeting your other guests and, of course, to your wonderful cooking.' Put S. Snape at the bottom and then under that write 'by Knotty.' Fold it and seal it and…"

"Is Mister Severus seeing a problem?" Knotty was by now very attuned to Snape's voice and moods.

"Look through the desk and see if you can find a couple of knuts. He's wearing the old Nelson's pouch, and we really should tip him. Then give him the note and we're done."

Luckily there was some small change in one of the drawers, leaving only the matter of Nelson letting Knotty touch him to open the pouch and deposit the coins. Then the owl grasped the note firmly, hopped up to the narrow slit that constituted a window in the dungeon room, slipped through and was gone.

Snape glanced at the clock on the wall. "Six-twenty-five," he said. "Just in time for the morning meeting."

With that he glided through the door of the office and out into the corridor while Knotty returned with a resounding 'pop' to the other elves in the kitchens. Snape was heading for a room on the second dungeon level, one where the ghosts met every morning at six-thirty, rather like monks gathering for chapter in a monastery.

It had taken Snape more than a week as a ghost to finally come to terms with the fact that he had to glide rather than walk wherever he wanted to go. The crux of the problem was not being able to feel the floor with his feet. In order to walk with anything even approaching a normal appearance, he had to focus so intently on the floor in front of him and the exact positioning of each step that Sir Nicholas had finally told him he looked like a man trying to walk an imaginary tightrope and would he please stop. Snape still insisted on taking the stairs and the corridors, however. Like his pensieve existence, it gave him the feeling he was still a person. The other ghosts accepted his eccentricities, attributing them to the fact that he'd been forced to stay behind against his will and laying private bets on how long he could keep it up.

"Ah, there you are!" Brother Walstan called cheerfully as Snape glided through the door of the empty classroom where the ghosts assembled. "We weren't sure you'd make it today."

Brother Walstan was Hufflepuff's Fat Friar, an illiterate peasant who'd taken to the road as an itinerant preacher in the thirteenth century and had died of an apoplexy after a night of riotous feasting. He'd refused to 'go on' because he hadn't been to confession in two and a half years and had amassed a considerable number of confessable incidents in that time – enough to make him leery of his reception in the afterworld.

"Why wouldn't I come?" Snape asked. "Have I ever missed a meeting?"

"No, but we're planning for tonight, and you'll be at the high table with Binns. We didn't think you'd be interested."

"Planning?" Snape managed to suppress a scoff. "I would think after all these years you would have the routine by rote."

"That is exactly the problem, Professor," Sir Nicholas, the Gryffindor ghost, informed him. "We certainly do not want any of the students to see the same routine twice. Each student is here for seven years, and during each of the seven, we have to do something slightly different. It should feel customary and familiar, but never repetitive."

"I see," said Snape. "There's more to this than I thought."

"One of the biggest snags is Peeves," Mungo the Magnificent confided. Mungo was a theatrical magician who'd bungled an underwater escape routine with disastrous results. He hadn't gone on because he insisted that the next time he could get it right. Naturally there was no next time. The others thought he was simply foolish for putting himself in a position where he couldn't use a wand, and for the benefit of mere muggles, too.

"Peeves isn't part of the planning?" Snape asked.

"Peeves?" snarled Sir Nicholas. "Plan? Sir, it is not in the nature of a poltergeist to do anything but annoy. There's not one of us wouldn't be pleased to see the last of Peeves."

"I've never thought to ask before," Snape ventured, "but why is he here?"

"Poltergeists are a sort of physical phenomenon," Sir Nicholas explained. "There are times when I actually envy Peeve's ability to manipulate things. He rather goes with the castle – sort of like an advanced case of mold, or dry rot." He looked around. "Does anyone remember a time when Peeves wasn't here? I know he was already around when I arrived."

It was Ravenclaw's Grey Lady who spoke up. "January 1199," she said softly. "There was a great earthquake that month, and when it was all over, we had acquired a poltergeist."

"And he's been like this ever since?" Snape asked.

"I fear so," she sighed.

"Well," said Snape, "under the circumstances I probably should forgo the meeting. I will be at the high table, and I'm sure I'll enjoy the show more if I don't know ahead of time what's going to happen. It is, after all, a busy day."

With that, he glided out of the room to the winding stair and from there down to Slytherin house. "Wall of Slytherin," he said, standing before the concealed entrance, "do you know me?"

"You are again the head of Slytherin house," the Wall intoned.

"I am, and the password for tonight is _Chasmatias."_

"An unlucky word," the Wall pointed out. "Such an event would not be welcome."

"Don't worry. I'm expecting neither quake nor chasms. It just came up in conversation a moment ago and happens to be topmost in my mind. I'll change it later if I can think of something else."

"Very well," the Wall consented and opened for him.

It was another conceit of Snape's that he preferred to say the password and enter Slytherin through the normal means of the Wall rather than pass through in spectral manner. In this case, it was because he could – he could speak the words just like everyone else, and the Wall would respond.

His inspection was thorough, including the minute details of every dormitory, the common room, and the baths. It was spotless and in perfect order, which was what one expected of house-elves, but checking it was nonetheless a duty that went with the job. A while later, he was performing the same duty in the Potions classroom, and then in the Dark Arts room on the first floor. By that time, most of the staff had arrived for the morning meeting over breakfast in the Great Hall. It was the last time they would do this before the students arrived.

"Good morning, Severus," McGonagall greeted the ghost as he glided into the Great Hall. "All ready for the deluge?"

"As I shall ever be," Snape replied. "Where are our junior members?"

He was referring to the two new teachers. One, Carloman Pinkstone, hired for the Dark Arts position, was of particular interest since he was the great-nephew of Carlotta Pinkstone, notorious for her repeated attempts to lift the Statute of Secrecy. Snape was certain the young man would support Robards's attempts to designate a muggle village as a Reasonable Sanctuary where the usual laws did not apply.

The other, Bridget Harkiss, a former Ravenclaw, was the new Potions teacher, a young woman who'd done outstanding work in Potions in Snape's classes when she was a student.

Snape's presence had ceased to be a novelty two weeks earlier. Luckily, all the teachers had read in _The __Daily Prophet,_ and had additionally been warned by private owl from Headmistress McGonagall, of the sudden, unexpected return of their late colleague. No one expressed displeasure, while a decent percentage were thrilled. Snape had long been known to the staff as a loyal, dependable comrade, and as a teacher who held his students to high standards. Moody and at times unpredictable, he'd nevertheless had a scathing wit and a uncanny ability to knock the wind out of a stuffed shirt.

The last three years had been an emotional roller-coaster ride for the staff with regard to Snape. First had come the shock and horror of perceived betrayal, and then the greater shock of learning simultaneously of the long, lonely vigil of duty to a dead general in the face of hatred and scorn from those who ought to have known better and, in practically the same breath, of the martyrdom that made any hope of reparation impossible.

It was a shamed and guilty group of teachers who'd returned to Hogwarts in the autumn of 1998. Shame that they'd let him carry the burden alone. Guilt that not one of them had ever thought to give the benefit of a doubt to a man they'd known and worked with for more than sixteen years. Excepting Hagrid, of course, and not a few of the teachers bore the additional guilt of having tried to sway Hagrid from his firm conviction that Professor Snape had been following Dumbledore's orders.

Then, miracle of miracles, just the previous spring he'd returned, the Snape they remembered in a more youthful body, only to be snatched away because death was better than the life the Ministry had chosen for him. During the time of his incarceration and hearing, not one of the teachers had gone down to London to visit, to encourage, to say 'Forgive me,' and suddenly he was gone.

Now he was back, in a form that could not be wantonly destroyed, and with the desire to rejoin their company. They admired the ingenuity that allowed him to sleep, to enjoy his coffee, and to keep them informed of the outside world via the _Guardian._ One by one they'd approached him to voice their regrets over their lack of faith, and he'd been gracious, expressing his sincere doubt that any normal human being could have behaved otherwise.

To be sure, neither Pinkstone nor Harkiss had been part of the emotional upheaval experienced by their new colleagues. He'd been assistant manager at a rare book and curio shop in York, a Gryffindor three years Snape's junior whom Snape had never paid any attention to in school, while she'd finished Hogwarts in June 1994 and been working at Slug and Jiggers in Diagon Alley. Both were intensely relieved that they didn't have to take on NEWT classes right away.

"So," Snape's ghost asked, joining his protégés at his usual end of the table. "First lesson for first years this week?"

"Lab safety," Harkiss replied. "Introduction to basic types of brewing and a short boil-curing potion to evaluate what they already know."

"You could alter it, you know," Snape reminded her. "Personalize it. It's not set in stone."

"Maybe after a few weeks. Personal philosophy – If it's not broken, why reinvent the wheel."

"And since of all the arts, potions is one of the most conservative, not a bad beginning philosophy. Much less likely to poison patients that way, and since the essence of potion-making…"

"…is healing. 'Do no harm.' At least that's what I always thought."

"Hippocratic Oath. You are well read."

"Thank you, sir." Harkiss smiled shyly.

"I'd like to engage my first years in a discussion about the nature of Dark Arts," said Pinkstone. "Where do you draw the line? Creating inferi is always dark, but is the Hand of Glory always a dark item? When is a jinx just a joke, and when is it dark magic?"

"The Hand of Glory," said the ghost calmly, "is both a parlor game and carte blanche for murder. You may find that level of subtlety beyond the average eleven-year-old."

"I was actually thinking of using childlike games to illustrate the point. I'd love to hear about the Hand of Glory one."

"Maybe this evening before the train arrives. And, of course, the nature of the Hand is influenced by the fact that it comes from a corpse."

"I may save that subtlety for another time," Pinkstone laughed. "They are, after all, only eleven."

They went on to cover the lessons for second, third, and fourth years. That was where it stopped, since Snape himself was taking fifth, sixth, and seventh. There are advantages to giving new teachers light loads. It leads to more reflection, and greater opportunity for adjustment or inspiration.

At nine o'clock, Snape called Knotty to accompany him to Diagon Alley.

The clerk in the Apothecary shop was neither Mr. Slug, nor Mr. Jiggers, but Mr. Quirke, as the neat embroidery above the pocket of his smock proclaimed to anyone who bothered to look. He was a bit flustered when his shop was entered in unorthodox fashion by a ghost and a house-elf, but not shocked. He read the newspaper like everyone else.

"Be with you in a moment," he told the two, only to have the customer he was waiting on say, "Oh, no. Let him go first." This was clearly not out of politeness, but out of the customer's desire to say to his family over dinner, "Guess who I saw today." Snape was not pleased, the Apothecary being the last of several shops to visit. The dubious status of being a nine-day wonder was growing thin.

"Just a few things for Madam Pomfrey and the new Dark Arts teacher," said Snape. "Pinkstone. You'll probably meet him soon."

"A few things?" Quirke whistled as he scanned the list Knotty gave him. "I have most of this, but not in the quantity you want. It'll be a couple of days."

"That's all right," Snape assured him. "Just make up the order and send it along to Hogwarts when it's complete."

"You'll have to sign for it."

"My assistant will sign for it. I have an authorization from Headmistress McGonagall." Knotty held out the document, which the clerk accepted and studied.

Quirke then looked Knotty over carefully. "I'm sorry, Professor. I can't accept the signature of a house-elf on an order, even with this paper. You'll have to sign it."

"Are you out of your mind? I'm a ghost."

"A ghost's signature is better than a house-elf's signature."

"Fine," the ghost growled at him. "Put the order and the quill right here on the counter."

More customers had, by this time, entered the shop and formed a gallery to Snape's performance. He reached for the quill, his hand slipping through it, the parchment, and the surface of the counter. "Oops," he said with a smirk, "missed." There followed a half dozen more tries as the ghost kept up a steady commentary and the chuckles of the spectators grew. "There it goes again… Slippery little devil… Nope… Let's try it from the bottom… Dang! I thought I had it… If at first you don't succeed…"

Finally Snape reached for the pencil in Quirke's pocket, managing to let his hand pass through pencil, pocket, and a substantial amount of the clerk's flesh. Quirke staggered backwards in disgust. "Don't touch me like that!" he cried. "It's like a bleeding icicle!"

"I was just trying to sign the order," Snape reminded him. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"All right! All right!" yelled Quirke. "Let him do it!" and Knotty signed, in a small, tidy hand, _by knotty, for Professor Snape._ The gallery of customers applauded.

"Thank you," said Snape as Knotty tucked their copy of the order into his garment. "It is so refreshing to deal with those of advanced education and open minds. One might even think we'd gotten as far as the 19th century. Come, Knotty. It's time we returned to Hogwarts."

The sea of customers (all ten of them) parted as ghost and elf departed. The good thing was that they'd finished their errands. The bad thing was that they were a public spectacle.

"Will they ever treat us like normal wizards?" Snape asked Knotty just before they made the transfer back to Hogwarts."

Knotty giggled. "Answer is 'no.' Professor isn't normal and Knotty isn't a wizard. Does Professor have another riddle?"

xxxxxxxxxx

Gawain Robards and Harry Potter were waiting for Snape at Hogwarts. Snape released Knotty to the kitchens. "We can't go to my office," he told them, "because I can't use a wand, and I'm not going to tell you the key to my office and room. We can talk in the staff room."

That was acceptable. Harry's acquaintance with the staff room was limited, so he looked around with interest, accepting a comfortable easy chair while Robards did the same and Snape perched three inches above a stool. "What's the occasion?" Snape asked.

"This," said Robards, showing him an invitation to Russ and Mrs. Hanson's housewarming. "Are you going?"

"I'm considering it."

"Do you know that muggles have been invited, too? It's one thing for him; he's not officially on the books as a wizard. The rest of us can fake not being wizards. You can't fake a ghost. If you go, it could undermine the petition for Reasonable Sanctuary."

Snape snorted in derision. "That pitiful assortment of primitive hovels? A sanctuary? Just because they tolerate a kind old lady and a loony teenager?"

"No," Robards snapped back. "Because it truly is a magical anomaly, and because it looks like we may have found the only uncontaminated example of a naturally evolving traditional wizard-muggle village. The families there have known about your grandmother's kin for generations, maybe hundreds of years."

"Right. That's why they torched her home with her in it."

That's not fair," Harry challenged him, "and you know it. You learned twenty years ago that they'd been Imperiused."

"How do you know that?" Snape demanded.

Well, he's you, isn't he? Any memory you have, he has, too. You overheard them talking about going on a raid with muggles, and then one of them said you weren't to go with them because of the old lady. They didn't want you to find out. I mean, it didn't change much because by then you were already working for Dumbledore…"

The ghost rose menacingly from his perch. "That filthy little sneak has no business peddling my memories to all and sundry. He's violating my privacy, and he will stop or I'll…"

"Do what?" Robards asked softly. "You gave those memories and that personality to Harry of your own free will. You insisted that he take them. Instead of exploiting them, which he could legally have done, he did everything he could to maintain their integrity and eventually reconstitute a human being – specifically, you. Russ and Severus are you, Professor, perhaps more than you are."

"There you're wrong," Snape said, composing his silvery self once again into a seated position and smiling smugly. "I distinctly remember someone mentioning soulstone. A personality may have emerged from that soulstone, but that doesn't mean a personality was put into it. Soulstone's tricky that way."

Harry's brain flashed to images of a spectral Voldemort appearing in memories where no Voldemort should have been, also a result of soulstone, and was flummoxed. One might go so far as to say that an earlier seed of doubt took root at that moment, leaving him less than certain about Severus.

Not so with Robards, who stood on firmer ground. "You know that's never been proven about soulstone. It enhances trace elements, but it doesn't create independent entities. If Severus was a product of soulstone, he wouldn't be able to exist outside the flask."

Snape narrowed his eyes in irritation, but didn't dispute the statement. Instead he focused on an earlier comment. "What kind of magical anomaly?"

Harry stepped quickly into the forefront again. "The man who spent the most time in jail because of your grandmother's death returned home to find that an apple orchard had seeded itself on his property and had just reached the point where it would bear fruit. It's an important part of his income."

"Jobberknolls," Robards went on, "are nesting in the old chapel where, so Harry tells me, they once refused to bury your grandmother."

"It's under new management," Harry hastened to add. "Russ wants to move her ashes there now, where you wanted them in the first place. Everyone thinks it's a great idea. Then there are bowtruckles in the apple orchard, and Russ has made wands from the wood…"

"Not very good ones, I suspect," interjected Snape.

"…bundimuns were found in the local grocery store," Harry plowed on, "and there's a porlock protecting a stable of horses."

"Impossible," Snape scoffed. "Porlocks operate in Dorset."

"Not this one," said Robards. "Hooper in Magical Creatures has unofficially confirmed it for me."

"Paul?" asked Snape, suddenly animated. "He was at…"

"That's right," Harry said quickly, "he was. I'll explain about that later…"

"But not in front of me," finished Robards, "because I'm not supposed to know."

Inspiration struck Harry then. "Why don't you go visit Hooper? He'd love to see you. He's married now, but he still lives in Norfolk. He could fill you in on all the details and maybe explain why now's not the greatest time to be in Weetsmoor."

"Hooper, eh?" said Snape. "Today's bad. The train's arriving and I have files to review. Meanwhile, you're going to brief Hooper on what and what not to say."

"Maybe," Harry admitted. "But you know Hooper a lot better than we do. Would he care what we asked him to do?"

"A lot can change in a decade," the ghost said, but he looked intrigued.

First, of course, there was the arrival of the students on the express to deal with. With Knotty's nimble fingers picking up, putting down, and leafing through, Snape reviewed the folders for all the students, refreshing his memory about those he knew well – the fourth years and above, paying closer attention to those he had known only through the reports of other teachers once he became Headmaster – the third years, and concentrating most on the unknowns – the second years who'd started after his death, and the first years that no one knew yet. Luckily he would only be teaching students he knew fairly well.

"You will," McGonagall reminded him as she and the heads of houses went on the final walk-through inspection, "have to take Exceeds Expectations into the NEWT classes, of course."

"What!" Snape shrilled, forgetting himself for the moment and letting the ghostly wail tinge his voice. "You know my policy!"

"Yes, Severus, but when the students took their OWLs, it was with the understanding that an E was sufficient. They've bought the books. They're preparing their future careers."

"Tha's right," said Hagrid, the new head of Gryffindor house (Flitwick was Deputy Headmaster). "Changin' on 'em now would be _ex post facto_ punishment, now wouldn' it?"

_"Ex post facto!"_ Snape hissed at him. "When did you start picking up legal jargon? I'll _ex post facto_ you right into…"

"I'd like t' see ya try," Hagrid grinned.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" cried McGonagall. "The point is that the students were promised NEWT classes if they made Exceeds Expectations. They have been acting on that promise, and we cannot rescind it. Shall we continue with the inspection?"

All was in order for the Welcoming Feast, and at 7:30 that evening, the staff were in their places. It was unusually warm and balmy; the sun, already going down behind the hills, set the lake afire with the reflection of its setting. In the distance they could hear the train whistle, signaling its approach. Snape glanced in the direction of the little path down the cliff to Lily's rock and sighed. He could hear his own young voice from so many long years ago…

"What would be the worst way to die?" Lily had asked.

The answer had been easy for that more naive Severus. "Like Professor Binns. Stuck in Hogwarts until you die, and even then not being able to leave… Can you think of anything worse than ending up a teacher at Hogwarts for the rest of your life?"

_Did I do this?_ thought the older, wiser, ghost. _Was there an arrogance in that answer that, like hubris, must be punished by the gods? Of course, I'm not like Binns. I can move around, go places… _He pushed that thought away, now not being the time to add arrogance to arrogance lest the gods find other, less tolerable punishments. "Knotty?"

"Yes, Mister Severus," said the house-elf, appearing suddenly at his side.

"Who is in charge of seeing that Professor Binns always has the correct student roster in front of him this year?"

"Winky," the elf replied. "Winky is very content with the job. Winky understands his pain."

_Pain?_ thought Snape. _'Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.' Poor Thoreau. It doesn't stop with the grave. I imagine he knows that now._ What he said to Knotty was, "Winky is a very wise elf."

"Yes, sir," said Knotty dubiously, and disappeared again.

The arrival of the thestral carriages set everything in motion. It was clear from the moment the first one opened its doors to disgorge students that they had all heard about him. Most glanced around timidly and, when they saw the spectral figure, gave him a wide berth and scurried into the castle. The Slytherin students, as always, had conferred and mutually decided on the proper course of action.

"Good evening, Professor," was the most common Slytherin greeting. There were others, mostly from the older students who knew him best.

"Good to have you back, sir."

"I made it to NEWT level, sir. Looking forward to it."

"We missed you, Professor."

"We're proud of you, sir. I'm glad I had the chance to tell you that."

It was like old times, though Snape wished that Kettleburn were still on the staff so they could bet on which house the Hat would sort students into.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Thursday, September 2, 1999_

Thursday evening, by tradition, was Snape's night off. He didn't even stay for dinner in the Great Hall. Instead he was off to Norfolk to visit Paul Hooper as soon as his last class ended.

"This is getting confusing," admitted Stacie Hooper, welcoming the ghost into their house. "My memories of you from school are of someone a bit younger, but the you I met in August was a lot younger. Are there any more of you?"

"I don't recall your having been impertinent as a student, Miss Burke," rejoined Snape.

"Ah, but this time you're in my house," Mrs. Hooper smiled. "I know this is a silly question, but is there anything I can get you?"

"It's all right, dear," Hooper said. "We're just going out for a bit of a walk. I may be late to dinner."

"I'll keep it warm."

The two strolled off down the lane from the house. They were far from the road, so the danger of being seen was slim, and Hooper had left work early for this meeting. The sun was still high enough in the sky that, from a distance, the ghost was nearly invisible.

"You've met him," Snape said without preamble. "What's he like?"

"The kid or the munchkin?" Hooper asked. "There's a difference, you know."

"We'll start with the kid. He's the one I'll probably be talking to if I go to this thing on Sunday."

"Hard to say. I'd only known him for a moment before he started having fits. Then when we went to get you, he was pretty nervous. What he's like on a normal day? Ask Potter or that Mrs. Hanson."

The ghost grunted. "Hedging your bets again, Hooper? Noncommittal means I can't hold you responsible for anything. Come on, be brave. First impressions?"

Hooper thought for a moment. "The kid's sort of like you if you'd had a normal life…"

"I did have a normal life!"

"By whose standards?"

"Shut up!"

Hooper shut up until Snape, furious at having to admit he'd said the wrong thing, insisted, "Well, go ahead. I didn't mean to shut up about everything."

"You should say what you mean," Hooper cautioned. "Though you're such an old dog, and that's such a new trick, it's probably too much to hope for."

"You were saying something about a normal life…"

"He doesn't have the scars. Looking at him unconscious is different from looking at you unconscious, and it affects his conscious behavior."

"When did you ever… Oh, right." Snape looked uncomfortable. "How different?"

"The animal mind is always aware of what needs to be protected. The cat whose tail was broken when it got caught in a door is forever wary of both tail and doors. A horse that hit a hurdle in a steeplechase shies from jumping. Unconscious people are similar. The areas of weakness and guard are always there. You and your parents, for example…"

"Leave my parents out of this."

"Okay, you and You-Know-Who. You and all those kids who used to pick on you at school. Do you still have the Dark Mark on your arm? Other scars?"

Snape touched his silvery left arm. "Yes," he admitted. "It's still there. This one, too," and he moved the high collar of his academic robes away from his neck to show Hooper the wounds made by Nagini's fangs. "You can't ever forget things like that."

"He can. Number one, he doesn't have the physical scars. There's no constant visual reminder. More important, he doesn't have the subconscious imprint of past pain. He has the memory, but it's kind of like watching something that happened to someone else. You know it happened, but you don't feel it in your gut."

The two were silent for a while, just strolling along in the lengthening shadows of the approaching evening. At least Hooper was strolling. Snape was gliding. Then Hooper went on. "There are some memories, though, that affect him differently. They really bother him. The weird thing is that a lot of them are happy memories of someone he liked. I think that's because they're more psychological, and that affects the munchkin more. It's got to the point that when the psychological pressure gets too great, they separate. He can't control it. It just happens."

Snape stopped, turning translucent eyes on Hooper. "Any idea what creates this pressure?"

"Yeah," said Hooper. "A girl."

The ghost stopped. "That's getting a little personal," it said.

"I guess so," replied Hooper calmly. "Personal enough to make mouse-man decide he'd rather not look at it at all, so he puts it in a bottle. Then something happens to trigger a need for the memory he excised, it isn't there, and the two burst open like an overripe melon. Practically the first thing I watched them do was go their separate ways. It leaves the kid in a coma and the munchkin in a pensieve. Neither one of them's very much use that way."

"Why don't they just lock the memories away inside?" Snape couldn't keep the bewilderment out of his voice.

"I've heard about that," mused Hooper, a malicious glint in his eyes. "It's called repression, and when you do it, you get real neurotic. When it happens to someone like you, you get a split personality. You never do anything by halves, do you, Professor?"

"Are you going to stand there with a perfectly straight face and pretend you know something about Freudian psychology?" the ghost demanded. "Because you haven't got a clue what he was talking about."

Hooper grinned. "And here I thought you were the one without a leg to stand on. What did you mean about locking things away?"

"It's something I used to do. In fact," Snape concentrated for a moment, "I still do it. He should be able to."

"Something else to ask Potter about," Hooper suggested.

"How do you know there was a girl?"

The change of subject didn't surprise Hooper. "One of the first things I told him was that I was married and had two daughters. He splinched right after that, and I got to look inside. He'd been trying to remember someone else whose marriage had bothered him, but the place where the memory had been was empty. That's what caused the splinch. I just guessed it was a girl. Come to think of it, it could have been another guy whose marriage had you all tied up in knots."

"It was a girl."

"You don't have to get defensive about it. We did used to wonder, though. McGonagall and Flitwick were too old. Kettleburn, Futhark, and Sinistra were married. Hagrid was… well, kind of a hopeless case. For a while we thought it was Madam Rosmerta, even if she was a few years older…"

"I cannot believe," Snape said, offended, "that the students of Slytherin house had nothing better to do with their time than speculate on the personal life of their head of house…"

"…but I knew it was really the squid." Hooper began to sing softly, "Squid loves him, Squid loves him, Squid loves him, and where Snape goes Squid follows, Squid follows, Squid follows…" He had to stop, however, because the ghost went for him with a jab to the ear that Hooper barely managed to sidestep. He was giggling. "Tell me about the girl, Professor."

"We were too young for it to have been of any interest to a prurient mind like yours," Snape huffed.

"Oh my gosh!" cried Hooper. "You really are a virgin! Richie Gamp used to insist…"

"I am not!" shrieked the ghost, now determined to keep timelines out of the conversation, "and it's none of Richie Gamp's or anyone else's business."

"It is if you want anyone to help your alter ego. It's a big part of his problem."

"Why would I want to help him… them… whomever?"

"Isn't that part of why you're here? Whatever they are, it's because of what happened to you. They are you, manifestations of what you are or might have been. Don't you want to know what you might have been like if life hadn't dumped all that fecal matter on you? Don't you want to be able to point to him and say, 'Look. That's what you stole from me. That's who you kept me from being. Basically, I'm that nice, and all the rest of it is your fault'? Think of all the people you could say that to!"

Much as he hated to admit it, Hooper had a point. "Robards doesn't want me to go to the housewarming on Sunday," Snape said. "He thinks I'll traumatize the aborigines."

"I don't know." Hooper pondered the problem. "From what I've heard, it would take a lot more than you to make a dent in the placidity of the place."

"Are you going?"

"I am. If for no other reason than to check on a certain porlock."

"Excellent," said the ghost. "I'll see you there." And with that he returned to Hogwarts, and Hooper to his dinner.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Sunday, September 5, 1999_

The ghost of Snape, using a spectral form of idiosyncratic logic, took 'around noon' to mean eleven thirty, and materialized in Russ's garden at precisely the half hour.

"Hullo!" cried Mrs. Hanson, who was outside cutting sprigs of parsley. "You're on the early side. It'll give us time t' chat." She indicated her basket. "Russ insists. It's for the hors d'oeuvres tray."

"Point for the clone," Snape muttered. "At least he knows something."

"You mean it's more than decoration?"

"Of course it is." Snape stared at the cottage in front of him. "Didn't there use to be a door here?"

"I wouldn't know, love. I never saw the original." Her basket nearly full, Mrs. Hanson came to stand next to the ghost. "The entrance is on the east side. That wing there, that's my room. Got my own shower, I have, and all the 'amenities.' Everything I need on the ground floor."

"That's convenient," commented Snape, studying the facade. "Odd shingles on the roof…" He started to glide through the wall where the door had once been, then remembered his manners. "I hope I'm not too early. I don't want to interfere with your preparations."

"Not at all," Mrs. Hanson led him around the front yard where cheerful flowers, mums, gladiolus, carnations, and zinnias, now flourished, autumn in all its glory. "They're a bit 'all over,' if you know what I mean, Mrs. Hanson apologized. "Next year we'll plan better, lay them out proper."

"They're lovely," Snape assured her, and waited patiently while she opened the front door.

"Russ," she called towards the kitchen. "Company already. It's Russ… Professor Snape."

The younger Russ stuck his head through the doorway of the kitchen – there was no actual door, which made the space seem more open – and seized the basket. "Excellent," he said passing it behind him. "Ginny, you need to cut this into little bite-sized stalks for the tray. Do you," this was for the ghost, "want to come into the kitchen?"

"Dare I?" responded the ghost. "If you truly are me, it should be all right. If you are an impostor, I shall know at once."

"I've got a muggle mead," Russ continued, showing Ginny what he meant about the parsley. "I poured some a quarter hour ago, then went to the door and looked back to remember the bottle and glass on the table. That memory – no people in it at all – is in the pensieve. Would you like to try it?"

Snape's eyebrows rose in surprise. "With pleasure," he said, and dove into the pensieve, to appear on its surface a moment later with a glass of mead in his hand, the memory kitchen around him. "And we can still talk! Did you think of this all by yourself?"

Russ looked irritated. "Oddly enough, yes, I did. You may remember yourself as being a bit of a dolt at the age of seventeen, but I have a thirty-eight-year-old mind, and I…"

"That's enough!" Ginny snapped at the two of them. She turned to the ghost in the pensieve. "He is you, you know. Anything you're capable of thinking of, he's capable of thinking of. If you belittle him, you're just belittling yourself." She went back to the hors d'oeuvres tray. "So tell me, smarty-pants, what's so great about parsley?" When neither looked as if he wanted to say anything, she added, "I want to know something Harry doesn't about muggle life."

"Its refreshing taste," said Russ at the exact moment that Snape answered, "It cleanses the palate." They glanced at each other, unsure which should proceed.

"Parsley," the ghost said at last, "has a sharp and refreshing taste that clears other tastes from the palate. If you try something with one taste, then nibble a bit of parsley, you'll be able to appreciate the next, different thing, with no hold-over taste from the first. Especially good with different types of hors d'oeuvres or cheeses."

"In addition," added Russ, "parsley has the ability – unique among all herbs – to intensify the flavors of the other herbs and spices without altering them. That's why you put it into soups, stews, casseroles… it doesn't mask their flavors with its own; it makes their flavors stronger."

There was that moment of stand-off as each manifestation of Severus Snape judged the other on accuracy and style, and then both relaxed.

"So," asked Mrs. Hanson, "which do you prefer? Curly or flat-leaf?"

"Curly," said Russ emphatically, while the ghost replied, "Italian." Then they glared at each other again.

"Whoa!" laughed Ginny, enjoying the novelty of having Snape glare at himself for once. "Shouldn't you have the same opinion? After all, you're the same person."

"That could be taken as evidence," Snape's ghost pointed out, "that we are not."

"Not at all," Russ countered. "We're making hors d'oeuvres. Curly for that, Italian for more complex dishes."

"Agreed," Snape conceded. "Perhaps I see the general picture, while you concentrate on the minutia of the task at hand."

Russ paused. "Why is there something about the word 'minutia' that makes that sound like an insult?"

"Insult is in the ears of the… beholder," said Snape, distracted by the sound of a car on the road outside. "Are we expecting someone? Someone who drives?"

"Several someones," Mrs. Hanson said. Having emptied her basket, she quickly washed her hands and headed for the door. "The Latimers, by the sound of it."

Russ and Ginny looked over at Snape, who folded transparent arms over his chest and declared, "I am _not_ going anywhere." Then he remembered that he himself was now only five inches tall, dove back into the pensieve, and reemerged as a full-sized ghost.

"I think that is so cute," Ginny cooed, "the way you can both do that." She managed to control her voice, but had to concentrate hard on the hors d'oeuvres to hide the expression on her face.

Neither Severus was able to reply, for at that moment Mrs. Hanson opened the door and admitted Gillian Latimer, who bore a simple, small black ceramic pot that contained a kaleidoscope orchid. "For the house," she explained as she looked around for a place to set it, and then she saw the ghost. "Oh! Hullo! It's good to see you again, especially out in company." She called out the door, "Hugh, the Professor I told you about? He decided to come."

Constable Latimer was right behind his wife. He was in summer uniform – due to the unseasonable heat – for the same reason he'd brought the car. He was going on duty at two and needed to be ready. "Pleased to meet you, sir," he said as he stuck his helmeted head through the doorway, gray eyes twinkling. "Gill did mention you, though she's been skimpy on the details. It's good you could make it." He raised two fingers to the pointed brim of the helmet in salute rather than offer a hand (a gesture the ghost appreciated, responding in kind), then unfastened the chin strap and set the helmet aside. "Not on duty yet, you know," he offered by way of explanation.

The kitchen was getting crowded with six, so Mrs. Hanson set Ginny, Gillian, and Hugh to carrying trays into the front room. All the windows were thrown open, and small tables with chairs were set out on the lawn. "Do you think the heat wave 'll break soon?" Mrs. Hanson asked Hugh as he shifted furniture. "I'm like t' wilt at any moment."

"I've heard at least a week more," Hugh confided. "I don't like to spread it around so as not to be too discouraging. No one wants to move about. There weren't half a dozen in the chapel this morning."

Mrs. Hanson sighed. "I did want to invite the curate, but I didn't think he'd do well here, under the circumstances."

Hugh agreed. "Best to go slowly with him. Outsiders need more time."

"Outsiders?" Snape's ghost exclaimed, so near to Hugh's ear that the constable jumped away from him. "That's one way of putting it. Some belong, and some don't. Some know, and some need the knowledge hidden from them. We're on the inside, and they, poor devils, are on the…"

Two pops, one crisp and the other explosive, sounded from the rear garden. "There's Harry!" Ginny called from the doorway, already leaving the kitchen the moment she heard his apparation signature. As soon as she said it, a third, more authoritative 'pop' sounded in the yard. A second later Harry, Hagrid, and Robards rounded the corner of the cottage and came to greet the others.

"Good," said Robards, shaking hands with Hugh, "we got here before the muggles."

"Present company excepted, of course," Hugh reminded him.

"Not necessarily," Robards responded. "You and I need to talk."

As Robards went forward to pay his regards to Mrs. Hanson and the various Snapes, Hugh turned to Ginny. "Who is he, again?" he asked.

"Gawain Robards, Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Be nice to him, he's on your side. He has the authority to wipe the memories of every muggle in a twenty-mile radius, but he'd rather not. He thinks you're important just as you are." Ginny laid a finger to her lips, then smiled in Robards's direction.

"Lucky us," said Hugh, following her lead and smiling as well.

It turned out that with the exception of the Latimers, wizards had been invited for twelve, and muggles for twelve-thirty, giving the former the chance to apparate in unseen by the general community, a precaution taken more for the benefit of the Ministry than for the community. The fifth and last magical guest was Paul Hooper, who was introduced to Hugh by Harry, he having already met the others either at Snape's exhumation or before.

"It's the flora and fauna," Paul explained to Hugh over a cup of tea, as Hugh was not drinking anything stronger prior to going on duty. "The Professor's the plant expert, and I'm the animal guru. We're supposed to figure out why so many strange things are popping up here."

"Do you really think it has anything to do with Russ and Severus coming back?" Hugh was trying to work out whether Paul was another wizard with the authority to wipe his memory. "It's entirely possible, you know, that this has been going on for quite some time, but we never realized before that there was anything to it."

"There is the apple orchard," Paul admitted. "And unless you had an avid birdwatcher in the village, or a trained botanist, you might not notice it was out of the ordinary."

"Except," Hugh pointed out, "for the number of walking tourists we get every year. If there were odd plants and animals, you'd think some of them would have drawn attention to it."

"Excellent observation." Robards came over, a glass of mead in his hand. "Were any of these hikers around when the jobberknoll died?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Hugh. "The belfry that evening was the biggest show in town."

"And yet now," Robards mused, "well over a month later, no one at the Ministry has picked up any trace of a report on these birds to any ornithological organization in Britain. You would think _someone_ would have said _something."_

"Is that good or bad," Hugh asked.

"Quite good, actually," said Robards. "There seems to be a naturally protective element involved. Hooper and I would like to see the known manifestations, of course. The jobberknolls, the bowtruckles, the porlock…"

Russ joined them. "The bundimuns are here," he volunteered. "I have them in the work shed so I can make cleaning products."

"Unauthorized magic?" Robards raised his brows, but the effect was less than serious.

"What did you get on your Potions OWL?" Russ demanded, equally tongue-in-cheek, "A Dreadful? You so much as take out your wand around my work area, and you're _persona non grata_ for all eternity."

Robards was suddenly more businesslike. "May I see them?" he asked. "Now, before the others get here?" He and Russ were thus at the shed when the little convoy of muggle vehicles arrived, which Robards watched through the shed's clear walls.

Gordon Roach brought his wife's great aunt Emily Dyson from the hotel together with Helen Ridley. Barbara Roach and Bill Ridley sent their regrets, but they were needed to run the businesses, Sunday being usually a busy day for them. Fred Allsop brought Sam Logan and Ernie Hackett, while Hugh's father Charlie Latimer had picked up Cora Wainwright. All had traditional little gifts for the house, mostly of candy, flowers, or food, Ernie in particular wanting to give his directly to Russ.

"Hear you've got a working refrigerator now," he called, walking towards the shed. "We slaughtered a pig yesterday for a special order, and you'd asked for the kidneys and liver…"

Russ left Robards immediately to get the meat into cold storage while Robards continued his assessment of the non-magical residents of the village.

Everyone had clearly been warned about the ghost, for all were studiously careful to act as if it were perfectly normal to be talking to someone you could see through, and no one made the error of trying to touch him. The first to approach for conversation was Mrs. Dyson.

"I can see your mother in you," she said. "And your father. I'll bet you don't remember me, though. I'm Emily Dyson. My husband Sam passed on a few years back."

"The name is familiar." Snape's ghost pondered the seventy-year-old features, trying to see them as youthful again, and then remembered. "The car. You drove my grandmother over to visit us from time to time. Yours was the first car I ever saw the inside of."

"Ha!" Emily turned to the others. "It's him all right. He crawled all over that car when he wasn't but knee high. It's good to see you again, young Snape. Now where's Kate? We've a gingerbread competition going on, and I've brought my latest entry."

After a few minutes, Robards left the shelter of the shed and joined Hooper, who was talking to a man Robards presumed to be the owner of the horses and now proud host to a porlock.

The highlight of the little party was the demonstration of the solar panels and the inspection of the septic system, the latter of interest primarily to the men who'd helped install it. "We weren't sure if you had it just for show," Logan explained, "in case an inspector popped 'round. Nice to see you're really using it."

"It takes a minimum of magic to keep the filters clean and reduces the magical footprint," Russ admitted. "Keeping below the radar, as it were."

The demonstration of the solar collectors and wiring was more exciting. Lights were turned on, the refrigerator tested, and the telly demonstrated, to the great amusement of Ginny, Paul, and Robards, none of whom had ever watched one before.

"Is 'Dr. Who' still on?" Snape's ghost inquired eagerly, only to have his hopes dashed by the information that the show had stopped three years earlier. "What is the point," cried the disappointed ghost, "in having a telly and no 'Dr. Who!"

Robards, meanwhile, was also working the room. Knowing the constable had to leave early, he cornered Hugh early on.

"How old were you when the old lady died?"

"About three, so if its information on her you want…"

"No, more about the cottage. I suppose burnt-out ruins would be a great place to play."

"Oh, it was." Hugh grinned at the memories. "We used to have great warlock battles here, shooting our wands like ray guns. That great hearth and chimney could be a cave, the inside of a pyramid, a home on an alien planet…"

"You had great imaginations. Was there ever a time you felt you actually did something magical? Something you were playing at, and it really happened?"

"Nah." The chagrin on Hugh's face spoke volumes of dashed childhood hopes. "I tried. I'd've given anything for a glimmer of magic. Not one shred of war… wizard magic ever came out of those sticks. Not until this summer, at least."

"Yes," Robards nodded. "I heard about that. What do you think caused it?"

"I have no idea. He gave me his wand and told me what to say and do. It was pretty simple minded. The real surprise was getting the apple wood wand to glow when that lady from your Ministry showed up. I didn't think I could do that."

"Has anyone else tried these wands that Russ Snape made?"

"Not that I know of."

The renewed conversation with Fred Allsop was more profitable. "So he cured a mare of colic? What exactly is colic?"

"It's different in horses than in people," Allsop told him. "In this case, the vet said it was a displaced dorsal colon. It was either a very tricky operation with no guarantee of success, or put Daisy down. I couldn't see living practically next door to a Rossendale and not asking for help. He came right away, bless him, and sang to her for three hours. The vet said he wasn't going to let some crackpot torture a sick horse with mumbo jumbo, so I locked him in a stall and…"

"You forcibly imprisoned him?" cried Robards. "Didn't he report you to the police?"

"He threatened to, but pretty soon Daisy stopped showing signs of distress and started getting cheerful again. The vet, he was close enough to see there were no drugs administered, and after a while, he got quiet, too. When it was over, the vet said he'd report him for practicing without a license, but young Mr. Snape – that was when it came to me maybe he wasn't so young – he said maybe the vet should check Daisy again, because if Daisy didn't have a displaced colon, the vet was going to look either very foolish or very mercenary for suggesting an operation. So the vet put on gloves and checked again, and went away muttering to himself."

"Did Mr. Snape at any time use a spell on the veterinarian."

Allsop shook his head. "Never saw a wand. Never heard a spell. Never saw the vet act funny or anything. That's why I went to him first when the horses were attacked. He may look like his dad from over Barrowford way, but deep inside he's a Rossendale."

Robards looked puzzled. "I thought his mother was a Prince."

"Only because that was her father's last name. Constantina was a Rossendale. Eileen… well maybe the blood skipped a generation because I never heard folks talk much about her talent, but the grandson was a Rossendale through and through. We didn't see him much, but Constantina, she set great store by him."

"Tell me about the porlock," Robards suggested.

"Cute little fellow. He didn't much like me at first, not until he figured I wasn't the one hurting the horses. Then we kind of tolerated each other. Then I found he likes tea and crumpets. Now we're the best of friends."

"Tea and crumpets?" Paul said behind him. "I never heard of a porlock eating that before."

"Not that that's odd," Paul continued as if they were talking about nothing more unusual than the weather. "Since porlocks are never friendly with the owners of the horses, it stands to reason they wouldn't be exposed to tea and crumpets. The crux of the matter is, did the porlock accept the tea and crumpets because it was already feeling comfortable around you – itself an oddity, mind – or did it start feeling comfortable around you after trying the tea and crumpets. Which was the cause, and which was the effect?"

"You think that's important?" Allsop asked.

"We are constantly striving to augment our understanding of our magical animal neighbors," replied Paul with noble and dedicated mien.

"Well," Allsop admitted, "I guess maybe I did think of him kind of like a hob or a brownie. I was wondering should I set him out a bowl of milk, you know, and I thought 'better safe than sorry.' So I put it out two nights, and the second night it was gone. So after a few days I tried bread, and it sort of grew to tea and crumpets. After that, he wouldn't take anything else, and I even catch him peering around a stall door watching for me to bring it."

"That's amazing!" cried Paul. "We need to try that in another venue and see if it works with more than one porlock."

"It could just be the nature of the village," Robards cautioned. "It really might not work anywhere else, even with the same porlock." He thought for a moment. "We should try it elsewhere. If it doesn't work, it's more proof that…" He stopped.

"Proof of what?" Allsop asked.

"Nothing. Talking shop at a housewarming. How tacky of me." Robards left Paul and Allsop to exchange notes on porlocks. His next encounter was with the ninety-year-old Cora Wainwright.

"Don't you worry about your young man," she told Robards in a firm proprietary manner. "We're watching out for him. We convinced the local curate he's First Response. Saves a lot of unnecessary explanations."

"What's First Response?" Robards asked.

"A local person trained in first aid and some emergency medical procedures. Someone who can take charge in a medical situation while we wait for the ambulance. They can be slow out this far." Mrs. Wainwright's voice lowered conspiratorially. "When I fell and broke my hip, they went for Russ first. By the time the paramedics arrived, he got it down to a crack, and a couple of days later the hospital was trying to work out what was wrong with their x-ray machine because even that was gone. They'll never link it to him because he'll always get there first and have everything well in hand before anyone else has a chance to."

"You trust him more than a doctor, then?"

Mrs. Wainwright laughed. "You forget, he's one of us. He used to visit his grandmother regularly, right here at this cottage. She never took him into the village because she didn't want trouble for her daughter with you people, but we watched him grow up. A very shy little boy, but quit a nice young man."

"Doesn't it bother anyone here that he's still the same age as he was twenty-two years ago?"

"He isn't. You've talked to him. That's no seventeen-year-old. You've got to stop being taken in by outward appearances, youngster."

It wasn't long before Hugh had to leave to go on duty, and took the car home since he couldn't stay in an area where mobile phone service was blocked. Before another hour had passed, the others were leaving, too, having spent an enjoyable time together, yet knowing that too long a stay would tire their hosts, especially Mrs. Hanson. In the few hours they were together, however, Robards had managed to spend some time conversing with each of Russ's new friends.

The ghost had the first comment after the muggles had left. "Isn't there anyone in this village your age?" he asked Russ. "Or even my age? Except for Mr. and Mrs. Copper-on-the-Beat this is a geriatric village. Where's the younger set?"

"There's kids here," Hagrid assured him. "We met a couple of them, and there were a bunch on hand when we found the jobberknoll… Don't remember if there was any teenagers, though."

Russ, who should have had the most to say, was quiet. After a bit he admitted, "I don't really remember seeing teenagers either. I haven't really been looking for any. The older children go to another town for school…" He looked around at the others. "Some must have been away on holidays during the summer…"

Robards shook his head. "I have to do a lot more research before I can bring this to the Wizengamot."

Snape's ghost smirked. _"If_ you bring it to the Wizengamot. Is this the right moment to advise caution?"

"I absolutely agree." Robards pulled a small notebook out of his pocket, together with the stub of a pencil, and began leafing through the pages.

"What?" Harry exclaimed. "No quill?"

"I'll have you know," said Robards, looking impatiently over at the younger man, "that just because Hogwarts and the Ministry, as institutions, are bastions of meaningless facade over proven practicality doesn't mean all of us are. Besides, pencils predate the Statute of Secrecy by more than a hundred years and so, for that matter, does paper."

"I've just never seen pencils for sale at any stationary store in either Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade," Harry admitted.

"That's because quills are more expensive. You can ask for pencils, and they'll sell them to you, but they'd rather soak you for a quill."

Snape's ghost was on Robards's side. "You know, Potter, if you'd ever bothered to stick your nose into any other part of wizarding Britain, you'd find there were a lot more places to buy things than just Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. You're what, nineteen now? Apparating for two years? Did you…" He addressed Ginny as well. "…or you for that matter, ever even go shopping in Ottery St. Catchpole? Godric's Hollow? London outside the Alley? Not to mention York, Canterbury, Norwich?"

Ginny blushed. "Mum shops in town," she said defensively. "I just never…"

"Never helped with the shopping," the ghost finished. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"The best pencils are in Keswick," offered Russ, trying to change the subject without changing the subject.

"Be that as it may," Robards insisted, "we have to get back to the matter at hand. If I'm to go to the Wizengamot with a request to have an entire village full of actual human beings declared a Sanctuary, I need hard, solid, factual evidence. Technical evidence. The more technical, the better."

"Why is that?" asked Harry.

"Because Shacklebolt's eyes start to glaze over whenever you talk chemistry to him. He won't admit he doesn't understand it, so he nods sagely and agrees with you."

"We need to find out the soil pH and mineral content." Russ jumped up from his chair – they were sitting in the front room so as not to disturb Mrs. Hanson, who was resting – and went to his study for his own pencil and notebook. As he returned, he was already jotting down notes. "I can get kits for rudimentary testing of the soil at any gardening shop. The area isn't great for farming… grassland and heath…" He stopped. Robards was looking at him strangely.

"When did you stop being a wizard?" the auror asked.

What threatened to become an embarrassing silence was broken by the silky voice of Snape's ghost. "My, my. And what part of the word 'chemistry' does the head of Magical Law Enforcement not understand?"

"It isn't the science. It's the methodology, and you know it." Robards looked a bit irritated.

"Ah, yes," continued the ghost, "and so we want to wave wands all over the place, attracting the minions of the Ministry to what we're doing weeks, even months before the case is ready, scuttling the ship before it's launched."

"He's got a point," Hagrid said, but quietly so that he could claim he was just muttering to himself.

"It's not that, and you know that, too." Robards glanced back and forth between the two Snapes. "It's the instinctive nature of the reaction, as if being a wizard was becoming secondary. Magic isn't secondary; it's so vital a part of us that we use it as babies. What if this place is a leveler? What if it takes magic away as well as giving it?"

Harry, Ginny, and Hagrid looked suddenly worried. Harry swallowed nervously. "I haven't noticed any loss of magical ability," he said, "but then I'm not here all the time."

Russ had by now recovered from his momentary shock. "We approach this scientifically," he said. "Robards has a valid observation – I did react like a non-magical person. We have to devise some way to test whether or not my magical abilities are diminishing, or if it's just the psychological effect of having to maintain a small magical presence here… the secrecy, I mean."

"Add that to the list," said Robards. "We need to test the soil, catalogue the flora and fauna, get histories of the local families – including a full history of your grandmother's family – and research any account of magical incidents over the centuries. It's a full load, and I have my own department to run so, much as it intrigues me, I won't be able to do any field work. Potter, are you up to a special assignment?"

Harry grinned. "Sir, anything that would get me away from Mark Savage would be a godsend. I'm yours to command."

"Thank you, but you already were that," Robards reminded him.

After Robards left, things became awkward again. "How are the classes?" Russ asked after a moment. "I hear there are new arrangements."

"Not bad, actually," replied the ghostly professor. "Potions and Dark Arts, fifth years, and NEWT courses. And with the battling buffoons gone, even the lion and the snake are easier to handle. And I only have them once a week."

"Battling buffoons?" Ginny was puzzled.

Russ smiled crookedly. "He means Potter and Malfoy. In sixteen years of teaching, I never saw a worse chemistry than between those two. A cobra and a mongoose in the same cage."

"Hey," Harry snapped. "I'm right in front of you. And who are you calling a goose?"

"Mongoose," Russ repeated. "Look it up." He looked around the room. "Did Hooper leave? He didn't say goodbye."

"He was talking to Mr. Allsop the last I noticed," Ginny said. "Maybe they're still out there."

"No," Hagrid volunteered, "Mr. Allsop, he left some time ago. Ya can't miss the sound o' that truck. I think Paul, he may've gone down t' that little stream in the back."

"Whatever for?" the ghost asked.

"Probably fauna," said Ginny. "We _are_ supposed to be cataloguing it. By the way, how much do you know about your grandmother's family?"

"Not a lot," both Snapes chorused, then stopped, each waiting for the other to continue.

"The only one," the ghost said finally, "to ever tell me about my family was my muggle grandmother, Gra. The Snapes are from North Yorkshire originally, but must have left the town of Snape fairly early – thirteenth or fourteenth century."

"How would ya know that?" Hagrid asked.

Russ took up the tale. "People who live in a town don't take the town's name for their surname unless they own it. You have to go somewhere else, and then they call you 'John from Snape,' – or whatever your name is – which eventually becomes 'John Snape.' They came into Lancashire because they were laborers on the Liverpool-Leeds Canal…"

"Weren't we biking along there?" Harry exclaimed. "You never mentioned that, did you?"

"Biking?" interjected the ghost. "You have a bicycle? I agree with Robards. When did you stop being a wizard?"

"Biking," Ginny stated firmly, "is one of the best things ever. You should try it sometime."

"I shall," the ghost retorted, "after you invent one that I can ride."

"I wanna hear more 'bout the laborers," said Hagrid.

"I don't know anything about them," said Russ. "I do know that my great-grandfather went to sea out of Liverpool and that's how he became interested in witchcraft and the occult. He's the one who wanted my father to marry my mother."

"The Princes, on the other hand," the ghost continued, "were more upper crust from out of West Yorkshire. They came to this area because of politics. Something about supporting the losing side in a fifteenth century war. They needed a place where they could blend in, and the area was already rife with wizards. No one really noticed another family."

"Which war?" Ginny asked.

"Roses," both Snapes said. "Yorkists," added Russ, while the ghost provided the information, "Bosworth Field, 1485."

"You know," Harry mused, "Nearly Headless Nick died in 1492. I wonder if he knew your ancestors from that time."

"I doubt it," said the ghost.

"Still," Hagrid pointed out, "that ain't yer gram's family. She were a Rossendale. What d' ya know about the Rossendales?"

"Not much," Russ admitted. "All Gra knew was that they've been here forever."

Ginny spread out her arms. "Here?"

"Maybe," said Russ. "This was the Rossendale cottage before it was the Prince cottage. All those things I was showing you back in July about the hearth and the construction…? For all I know, it was Rossendales who did it."

Hagrid chuckled. "I bet that Mrs. Wainwright 'd know somewhat about it."

xxxxxxxxxx


	16. Chapter 16 – A Reasonable Sanctuary 2

**STORY NUMBER FOUR: A Reasonable Sanctuary 2**

As soon as he returned to Hogwarts that day, with the sun easing toward its mountainous setting in the early evening, the ghost of Severus Snape sought out the ghost of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. In spite of his earlier denial, Snape had been startled by the suggestion that Sir Nicholas could be familiar with his own family history and wondered if there might be something to it.

"Prince?" mused the older ghost once Snape tracked him down (or rather up) to the trophy room on the third floor. "Not many Princes have come through here since I took up permanent residence, if you take my meaning."

"This was probably before you took up permanent residence," said Snape. "Maybe even when you were a student."

"Prince…" Sir Nicholas knit his brows as he reviewed his memory of long-ago days at Hogwarts. "There was Randolph Prince – in Ravenclaw as I recall. West Riding man like myself from a village southeast of Leeds. We didn't have courses by the clock back then. Spells were spells, and not separated into charms and transfiguration – or dark arts, for that matter. We were placed under tutors and studied or attended lectures as the tutors felt we needed them to develop our talents. I studied under the great Taffy of Llanrwst, a master lecturer in nonverbal spells and wandless magic, and Prince sat for the lectures as well. He was younger than I and later…" Sir Nicholas stopped, pulled out a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his eyes.

"What happened to him?" Snape asked cautiously. He didn't yet have much experience as a ghost, but rather suspected that he could no more cry than open a door. He was certain Sir Nicholas's reaction was based on something that happened prior to his death.

"It wasn't a bad time to be an English wizard in Scotland," said Sir Nicholas, not seeming to have heard the question. "The king was still a boy, and his regents were reformers. There wasn't too much strong anti-English sentiment in Scotland, and the new king in England was easing up on persecutions of heretics and witches, so our school lives were fairly calm. It wasn't until we went home that it changed.

"It was the trouble between Lancaster and York – the conflict they named for roses. Prince and I were both back in Yorkshire – that's where Porpington Mimsy was before they drowned it in a lake; can you believe they called it a swine sty? – when Warwick the 'Kingmaker' turned traitor and tied himself to Lancaster. A pack of heretic-burning, witch-hunting monsters, those Lancastrians.

"Well, they suborned King Edward's brother, the Duke of Clarence, raised an army, and before you could say 'Jack the Giant Killer,' Edward and his youngest brother, the Duke of Gloucester, had to flee England and seek refuge in Holland. That's where Prince and I met again, for we could neither of us see any good in bringing Lancaster back.

"We couldn't let anyone know we were wizards. Could you see the trouble it would cause Edward if Warwick knew he was supported by witchcraft? Turns out we didn't have to use magic. Edward by himself was more than enough magic on a battlefield, and young Gloucester proved an able general at the age of eighteen."

"You talk as if you knew them."

"We did. Edward wanted Dickon of Gloucester out of London, so he got sent up to Yorkshire to rule the north. Prince and I were both part of his court there."

"Out of London? Why?"

"Too easy a target. Too curious. Too open-minded. It's one thing to hold off on persecuting heretics; it's quite another when your own brother is halfway to being a Lollard. Did you know they brought the first printing press to England? He loved books, did Dickon."

"Did he love wizards, too?" Snape was trying to remember what he'd learned in muggle school about English history. He had serious gaps in his working knowledge.

"Oh, no. He never found out about us; we were too careful. But it wouldn't have been too bad. After Edward died, one of his mistresses was accused of being a witch and of plotting to kill Gloucester. Do you know what Gloucester did to her?"

Snape shook his head.

"He made her walk barefoot through London carrying a candle for penance, and then later he gave permission for her to marry one of his clerks. That boy had serious trouble trying to hold a grudge. Had a temper, but give him time, and he'd forgive anyone."

"What happened to him?" Snape asked, now certain that this had a bearing on what happened to Randolph Prince.

"He was killed. He became king and was killed in battle on a Monday morning. Twenty-second August, 1485. Prince survived but fled west to near the border of Lancashire. He never took up politics again, but I understand Richard became a traditional name in his family."

"Richard Prince," said Snape, "was my grandfather's name. It's my first name, too. I never knew I was named for a king."

Snape talked Sir Nicholas into coming down into his dungeon office where a quick request to Knotty got a map of the north of England and another of northwest Europe spread out on the table. Sir Nicholas quickly found the spot where Porpington Mimsy had been.

"I thought it was Mimsy Porpington," said Snape.

"I changed it," Sir Nicholas confessed. "Thought Porpington Mimsy sounded too Latin. Means the same. They say Lyme Regis in Dorset and King's Lynn in Norfolk, but it might just as well be King's Lyme and Lynn Regis for all the difference in meaning. It was 'Mimsy' because of all the miserable, flimsy houses there – or that's what muggles thought they were. Still, look... Swinsty Reservoir. They didn't have to get insulting about it."

"Somehow, I don't think Swinsty means swine sty."

"Well then, what does it mean?"

"Haven't a clue."

"Prince was from around Kippax…" Sir Nicholas found the town. "…but after August 22 – an evil day when nothing good can ever happen again – well then he moved to the westernmost part of the Riding, to Gisburne."

"Gisburn is in Lancashire," Snape informed him, pointing to the map.

"That's what comes of redrawing maps," retorted Sir Nicholas. "People start getting their history mixed up."

"Sir, did you ever hear of a wizarding family called Rossendale?"

"Now _that's_ a town that _is_ in Lancashire!" Sir Nicholas cried. "Wizarding family, though? Never heard of them at Hogwarts, not in all my years here."

"I was afraid not," said Snape. "Do you know how Richard Prince died?"

"Executed, like me," replied Sir Nicholas.

If it were possible for a ghost to grow pale, Snape would have paled. "Do you mean forty-five blows with an ax?"

Sir Nicholas was quick to reassure him. "No, no. Nothing that bad. You see, my execution wasn't really about teeth and a bad spell. That was just an excuse because I was a Yorkist. I wasn't the only one. Nearly fifty years later, the son of the usurper who killed Dickon executed his niece, the daughter of the traitor Clarence. She was sixty-seven then, but she was no traitor, and she fought them every step of the way. It took eleven blows of the ax to finish her. I am in good company."

"But Richard Prince?"

"Died five years after I did. He was with Richard IV, that the usurper called Perkin Warbeck, when they landed in Cornwall and were captured. Prince was no nobleman, so he was hanged. He didn't have his wand, you see. Didn't want a charge of witchcraft leveled against his king."

Sir Nicholas excused himself then, remembering that he had a meeting of the local haunting guild to attend, a meeting that regretfully excluded Snape, since Snape was teaching staff and, in any case, not actually 'haunting.' He left his fellow ghost with a deal to think about.

_Richard III. My ancestor was a Yorkist who followed Richard III. 'Princes in the Tower' Richard III. 'My kingdom for a horse' Richard III._ Snape had seen the Shakespeare tragedy more than once, and that was about all he knew of the last English king to die in battle. _Obviously Sir Nicholas saw more in him than a hunchbacked younger brother in a play for power. Hopefully Richard Prince saw more, too. There won't be anything in the Hogwarts library on a muggle king, but the bookstores and public libraries are another matter. Who can I get to go to a bookstore or a muggle library for me?_

His alter ego in Weetsmoor was the obvious choice, but Professor Snape had an urge to keep Russ Snape, or even the midget Severus Snape, out of the loop for a while. He was quite willing to admit to himself that he was jealous of the several month's advance they had on him in this future world as long as he didn't have to admit it to anyone else.

_There are other wizards with muggle backgrounds, and there are out-and-out muggles who might be willing to engage in a little historical investigation. The constable's wife, for example. She's always prying for information. I bet she'd love to find out I'm interested in fifteenth century kings._

It was too late to return to Weetsmoor since students were already in the Great Hall for Sunday dinner, and Professor Snape had no free time until his evening off on Thursday. It was no matter. A year and a quarter locked in a coffin had honed Snape's instinctive patience to a preternatural level. A four-day's wait was nothing. He would go to Weetsmoor on Thursday.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Monday, September 6, 1999_

Harry Potter arrived at the cottage at ten o'clock the next morning to find Mrs. Hanson fixing a midmorning pot of coffee, Russ lying peacefully on the sofa in the front room, and Hugh Latimer sitting cross legged on the floor by the coffee table staring at Severus on the surface of the pensieve.

"What happened?" Harry cried as he burst through the unlatched door. "He separated again!"

"Not exactly," Hugh replied calmly. "I mean, he did, but it was very carefully planned. I did it with this." He held up his applewood wand. "Russ thought… Or maybe it was Severus who thought of detaching, and I lifted him out and put him here."

Harry was… agitated. "What did you do that for?" he practically shouted.

"Now, dear," said Mrs. Hanson, appearing at the kitchen doorway, "do try t' take things more easily. I'm sure Russ knows what he's doing, and Hugh here is a constable. They've both asked for coffee, but I can make you tea if you like."

"Oh, yes, Potter," said Severus from the pensieve, _"do_ sit down and have a cup of tea. The standard British panacea. What we are doing is an experiment. We had to do it before you got here because your presence would have skewed the results. Our local muggle peeler has successfully used a perfectly ordinary wand to extract both a very simple and a very complex memory strand. That constitutes a piece of evidence."

"Not really," said Harry, settling into a chair. "Maybe all it proves is that he's a weak muggle-born wizard."

"That," responded Severus, "is the point of the next phase of our investigation. But you aren't allowed to contaminate anything, so don't touch."

Harry grinned. "What's he going to do?"

"He's going to try to make the one potion that even Longbottom was never able to botch. He's going to brew nettle tea. Mrs. Hanson has found some very nice nettles down by the stream."

"That's not a magical potion! It's… nettles boiled in water."

"Exactly. And when prepared by muggles, it has a mild diuretic effect, but when prepared by anyone magical, it relieves blisters, which is why it's used in boil curing potions. If Constable Latimer is a latent wizard, he can produce the magical potion, albeit a weak one. If he isn't, he'll make tea. If he makes an actual potion, we've got nothing, but if he only makes tea, we have a muggle who can use a wand."

It was a point Harry had to ponder for a moment, never having before considered the finer aspects of the difference between a wizard and a muggle, but Hugh seemed to have grasped it very well. The three – Harry, Hugh carrying the pensieve, and little Severus riding along – went into the kitchen where Mrs. Hanson was waiting with gardening gloves and pruning shears.

"Now remember," said Severus sternly, "only Latimer here can gather the nettles. No one touches them but him. No one."

Harry stayed in the kitchen with Severus while Mrs. Hanson took Hugh down to the stream to gather a small basketful of stinging nettle leaves. They were back in a very few minutes, nettles being rather plentiful on that part of the property, at which point Mrs. Hanson poured the coffee, and Harry took a cup to Severus.

Hugh so far had been remarkably quiet. Now he asked laconic questions as he worked by the wood-burning stove. "Do I need to dry them? Should they be whole, shredded, or chopped? How long does it steep?" When the nettle tea was brewed, Hugh took the pensieve back into the front room and replaced Severus into Russ's body.

"There," said the now unified Snape. "Now we can test it."

"How do you intend…" Harry began, having followed Hugh into the front room, but Snape did not pay him any heed. Instead he pushed past Harry into the kitchen and very calmly laid his left index finger on the surface of the hot stove. "What are you doing!" Harry yelped.

"Scientific experiment," Snape replied, checking the resultant burn carefully. "How can we test if this concoction will relieve blisters if we have no blister to test it with?" Indeed, after a few moments, the finger sported a very respectable blister. Snape poured some of the nettle tea into a small, shallow bowl and immersed the tip of his injured finger in the liquid. The tea had no effect on the blister whatsoever.

"If anything, it's still growing. Do you think that's conclusive?" Hugh asked, examining Snape's finger under a magnifying glass.

"It's certainly worth presenting to the Wizengamot." Snape moved to a kitchen window where he could study his finger in the sunlight. "There might even be squibs who could brew that potion, but you're obviously not one of them." He looked over at Harry. "That could be a valuable experiment, too. Aside from Filch, do you know any squibs?"

"Just Mrs. Figg. She lives near the Dursleys in Little Whinging, and she used to look after me from time to time," Harry replied.

"Good," said Snape without even bothering to look at Harry. "Take some nettles, pop down to Little Whinging, and ask Mrs. Figg to brew some nettle tea. Then bring the concoction here, and we'll test it. And for goodness sake, don't you be in the room while she's brewing it, and don't so much as breathe on it until it's safely protected in a flask."

"You were in the same room with Hugh," Harry protested.

"So were you," retorted Snape, "but I was just a filament of thought while you were a corporeal wizard. Luckily it didn't affect Latimer's brewing. Maybe your magic doesn't project. Now if Latimer _had_ made a potent brew, we'd have had to take your presence into account. Maybe even do it over again. So don't hover around Mrs. Figg." As he was speaking, Snape decanted the nettle tea into a flask and stoppered it.

Harry waited a moment, but there was nothing more forthcoming, so he dutifully left the cottage and apparated to Little Whinging. Half an hour later, he was back with a nettle infusion carried in a small mayonnaise jar. "She wants to visit Weetsmoor," he announced on entering to the company in general, which now included Gillian and two rather scruffy -looking young boys in the front room. "Why aren't you in school?" Harry demanded as soon as he saw them.

"Bank holiday," said the taller of the two, a pug nosed blond with blue eyes. He couldn't have been older than nine.

"That was last week," Harry fired back. "I've a good mind to call the police and hand you over for truancy."

"Too late," said Hugh. "The proper authorities are questioning them even as we speak."

"Their teacher reported them missing, and I caught up with them down by the stream," Gillian explained. "Severus asked to test them before I hauled them back to the schoolhouse. They made some very nice tea."

Snape, meanwhile, had wordlessly taken the mayonnaise jar into the kitchen to test it. He stuck his head through the doorway, his left index finger held up for examination. "Weak but efficacious. There is measurable shrinkage. Mrs. Figg has wizarding genes."

"Cool!" cried the smaller, brown-haired boy. "Can I get me a pair of those jeans?"

That got him a smack from his friend. "Not those jeans, the other ones. Honestly, Wally…"

Snape ignored the boys. "Interesting that squibs are still genetically wizards. That probably means they could have wizard children." As he came into the room, they could see he was carrying three applewood wands, the jar, and a hammer. "Here," he said, handing one wand each to Hugh and the boys. He then calmly set Mrs. Figg's mayonnaise jar on the floor and smashed it with the hammer. "Now, one at a time, point your wand at the jar and say, _"Reparo!"_

"Shouldn't that be _Ampullam reparo?"_ Harry asked.

"It's bad enough," Snape snapped, "that I have to give rudimentary wand instruction. I'm not teaching Latin, too. The noun is unnecessary as long as you point at the object, and you know it."

All three tried to repair the jar with identical lack of success. Snape then asked them to cast a Lumos spell, and all three wands glowed green at the tip. Finally, Gillian was given one of the wands and told to attempt both spells. She had no more success with the Lumos than she did with the Reparo. In her hand, the wand produced nothing.

The experiment now concluded, the two reluctant scholars departed with Gillian to go to the village and to school. Mrs. Hanson passed them in the doorway carrying a basket full of salad greens and vegetables from the garden. "Lunch in half a hour?" she asked as a solicitous Snape hurried forward to take the basket into the kitchen while she removed hat and gloves. "I was thinking a bit of ham salad. Something cool because of the heat. And lemonade. Maybe outside for a bit of a picnic like."

The three young men instantly agreed that a picnic of ham salad, bread and butter, and lemonade would be perfect. The furniture from the previous day's party was still on the lawn, so they took glasses of lemonade out and moved a small table and some chairs into the shade of a tree where they discussed the import of the morning's activities.

"I don't understand," said Harry, "how you can do magic and not be magical."

Snape sipped his lemonade thoughtfully. "The purpose of a wand," he explained, "is not to produce magic. Wands don't make magic. They focus magic. The magic is inside us. It's a genetic trait like skin pigmentation. Even squibs seem to have the genes, though there must be something blocking its expression in terms of spell casting. There's been some debate whether muggle-born wizards have a mutated gene, or whether they actually come from squib families that have carried a recessive trait for generations and have forgotten they're wizards."

"But Hugh isn't…" Harry glanced at the constable, who remained silent.

"Isn't a wizard, so when he holds a wand, the wand isn't focusing his magic. It's focusing something else, and my hypothesis is that it's the magic of this place. And he grew up here, breathing its air and eating food from its soil. So did Jack and Wally. That could be why they can focus the magic, but Gillian can't."

Paul Hooper arrived at precisely the moment that Mrs. Hanson brought out the ham salad, prompting Snape to comment that Hooper "could smell food a continent away."

"What brings you here?" Harry asked Hooper. "I thought you were Magical Creatures."

This produced a burst of laughter from Snape. "I always knew Hooper was a beast," he crowed. "Now it's confirmed by St. Potter. Hooper, you are a creature!"

"You know what I mean!" Harry snapped at him. "Hooper here works in Regulation and Control of…"

"I know that!" Snape shot back. "You, Potter, are about as humorless…"

"In seven years, I never noticed a trace of humor in you."

"That's because you never could recognize…"

"You can't recognize what isn't there, even…"

_"That is enough out of the both of you!"_ cried Mrs. Hanson. "Russ, I swear, you continue this quarrel, you'll go up to your room without another bite, and you, young man – Potter's your name? – I trust you're aware I came here for some peace and quiet, not for a row between two boys who should know better."

"Sorry," said Snape at once. "Got me buttons pushed. Not happen again."

"See it don't," Mrs. Hanson admonished him. Then she turned expectantly to Harry.

"I'm sorry, too," Harry told her. "I'll try to control myself." That ended the argument, although both young men exchanged rude gestures when Mrs. Hanson's back was turned. Her presence, nonetheless, kept the conversation civil from that point on.

"May I," Hooper asked calmly, "impart my findings to the committee?"

Snape glowered, the Severus side clearly dominant. "Don't go getting all 'Ministry' on me. If you got something t' say, say it." Harry said nothing.

"Yesterday," said Hooper, "I checked out the botanical species in the garden. I saw nothing unusual in that there are no overtly magical plants growing here. I did find an odd abundance of mundane herbs that wizards use in potion brewing. Plants grow here that ought not to grow here. With the exception of the specifically exotic, it's a potions-maker's paradise."

"And that means…" Snape prompted.

"There are things here that would flourish quite naturally in Italy or Greece," Hooper said, "but that would have a more tenuous existence in this latitude. That's all. They grow here if properly tended, but they naturalize with difficulty. Basil, for example. Or belladonna."

Snape pondered the point for all of five seconds. "Are you sure it's not just my grandmother's garden? There are things in the yard here that don't grow anywhere else in the village."

"That's true," Hooper admitted. "I have also been informed that the garden continued to maintain itself after your grandmother's death for some twenty years. But the land around the rest of the village has things that oughtn't to be there. Not as many as in the garden, but enough to attract attention." He paused for effect, "And that doesn't include the apple trees."

Snape's ears visibly pricked forward. "You found out the secret to Sam Logan's apple trees?"

"These particular apples appear to be some variety of Ribston Pippins – a good Yorkshire cultivar for nearly three hundred years. Not big and flashy – a modest, homey sort of apple with a sweet taste. In ancient Nordic magic," Hooper continued, "apples were not only the food of the dead, they were also a food, and therefore a symbol, of rejuvenation."

"Yeah," said Harry, "but this is England, not Scandinavia."

"Part of the Danelaw," Hugh offered. "Yorkshire and Lancashire both, from North to Irish Seas. There's a lot of Nordic tradition here."

"It's the fruit of the Garden of Paradise," Mrs. Hanson chimed in. "It's what that snake tempted Eve with. We had a picture in a book when I was a girl, and the vicar explained that in the hands of Adam the apple stands for sin, but in the hands of Jesus it means salvation."

"The symbolism is clearly important," Hooper went on, "and that isn't all. There's only one other tree in the area that should bear Ribston Pippins. Should but doesn't. That tree's in the back garden behind your cottage. It's leafed out, so it's not dead, but there's no trace of blossom or fruit on it. But if Mr. Logan's apples have a source within twenty miles of here, it's that tree back there."

"I don't get it," Harry sighed. "How would the seeds get from here to there?"

"My guess is birds," said Hooper. "About thirteen to fifteen years ago. Any really old birds around here? Ravens maybe?"

"I don't know," Snape replied. "I could get Nelson. He might know."

Mrs. Hanson shook her head. "That's a smart little owl, Russ, but he can't talk to us."

"That doesn't matter," Snape told her, smiling. Russ had the upper hand over Severus for the moment. "Hooper here can talk to him."

It took nearly a quarter of an hour for Nelson to respond to their calls and encouragement, and when he did arrive, he was grumpy and irritated. His neck feathers were raised, wings held out a little from his sides, and his claws click-clicked impatiently on the metal lawn table. He was an owl, after all, and the early afternoon was the time to be dozing, especially when the weather was this hot.

"Thank you for coming," Snape said to the sleepy bird, "because we have something important to talk to you about."

_"Aaa-ck!"_ said Nelson, not inclined to be polite.

"I'm serious. Mr. Hooper here would like to ask you some questions."

_"Aaa-ck!"_ repeated the owl, but turned and dipped his head gravely to Hooper, who greeted the owl in turn. Then Hooper sat facing Nelson to initiate eye contact.

The reaction to this was unexpected.

The little tawny owl at first met Hooper's gaze placidly, then suddenly sat up, stretching his neck and body and spreading his wings until he appeared three times as large as before, swiveling his neck to look one hundred eighty degrees behind him, first to the left, and then to the right. His feet began a shuffling, nervous dance on the table, claws clicking back and forth in an uneven rhythm.

Hooper didn't move and, following his calm example, neither did the others.

_"Aack-ack!"_ cried Nelson in bewilderment. _"Aack-ack!"_

_"Kew-wick,"_ said Hooper.

_"Hoo,"_ said Nelson, and began to settle down.

"What's wrong?" Snape asked, now that it was evident that Nelson was not going to have a heart attack.

"He's smarter than most," replied Hooper, not glancing away from the owl. "It actually occurred to him to wonder how I was able to do this."

"Do what?" asked Mrs. Hanson.

Snape explained. "Paul can communicate mentally with animals. They exchange mind pictures. It's a talent, a gift."

"Right," said Mrs. Hanson, keeping her eyes on Hooper.

Nelson and Hooper were once again staring at each other. Hooper began a running commentary. "Now I'm showing him Logan's orchard. He recognizes it. Now I'm thinking of the same orchard, but the trees are much younger - saplings. This could take a while and several image shifts. Animals aren't used to thinking in terms of the past… Okay, now he gets it. Now I'm showing him apple seeds… Drat." The last word was said softly, in disappointment rather than irritation. "He's not that old. I have to try to get him to think about older birds."

"That could be a job," said Hugh appreciatively.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Great. Now run that by me again in words of one syllable."

"I just did," Hugh laughed.

"That's all right, dear," Mrs. Hanson soothed Harry, who ears were visible exuding steam, "I wouldn't mind a simple explanation myself."

Hugh relented and talked while Hooper kept his attention on Nelson. "There's not a lot of birds around here that live to be ten, much less fifteen. Not in the wild. The best chance would be a raven, if we have one that old. But I never knew owls and ravens to get along. You might also find an old hawk, but there's the same problem. If Nelson knew an owl that old, he'd probably have told Hooper already."

Hooper sat back, taking a deep breath and blowing it out through rounded lips. "He's going to try, but he'd rather carry a message to a wizard. He doesn't like the local ravens."

Nelson was shifting from foot to foot again, so Snape bent forward to soothe him. "That's a good boy," he crooned, lightly stroking the owl's feathers. "Good boy. Wait here and I'll get you a treat." He wheeled and ran into the cottage, returning a moment later with some chopped meat, which Nelson accepted greedily.

"It's agreed, then," said Snape to Nelson. "Now, go find that raven."

Nelson didn't move.

"What's wrong with him?" Snape started to ask, for Nelson had set up a steady rocking with his feet, screeching _"Kew-aack! Kew-aack!"_ and when this got only stares from the wizards, he spread his wings and launched himself at Hooper, buffeting him with wing blows until the owl lost momentum and had to settle back on the table.

"What the…?" said Snape, but Hooper was already seated in front of Nelson, engaging eye contact. Eye contact from which Hooper rose a moment later, laughing.

"He says," Hooper told Snape, "that I have to tell you that he does not consider this an emergency, and if it isn't an emergency, you should wait until about five o'clock to wake him up. He's an owl, and he needs his sleep, and if you keep waking him up unnecessarily, he's going to quit!"

Nelson left, apparently mollified by having had the chance to 'voice' his opinion and air his grievances. Hooper left shortly afterwards, unable to absent himself any longer from the Ministry.

"I suppose," Snape said to Hugh with the tiniest hint of a sneer, "that you'll be leaving soon to go on duty."

"Actually, no," replied Hugh. "I'm free today. I just need to phone Gillian when I'm ready to go home to dinner. Free as a lark, in fact."

"A lark tied to apron strings," Snape huffed.

"There are worse things to be tied to." Hugh downed the last of his tea. "Don't tell me you have no more tests to perform."

Harry glanced around at the pleasant setting of the cottage. "I wonder how far the magic field extends," he said. "Could you use that applewood wand in London?"

"I doubt it." Snape rose from the table and walked across the grass toward the herb garden on the west side of the cottage. "It might not even work on the other side of the stream."

"Let's have a go, then," Hugh said. He picked up the wand and strolled past Snape on his way down the narrow slope to where the little stream trickled past, fed by a spring higher up Weets Hill. A short leap and he was across, and a moment later the shade under the trees where he stood was lit by the pale green of a Lumos.

"That isn't the limit," said Harry, joining Hugh. "Maybe farther up the slope." He contemplated Snape, still on the other side of the stream. "Are you coming?"

"Are we making an expedition of it?" Snape asked. "Because if we are, we might want to go prepared. Refreshment, you know."

"We just ate lunch!" Harry protested.

Snape shook his head in disgust. "Earth to Harry. It's hot. It's blazing hot. Mad dogs and Englishmen hot. I, for one, am not going hiking for an unspecified length of time without liquids." He turned and walked around toward the door on the east side of the cottage, calling back over his shoulder, "You can die of heat prostration if you want."

"He has a point," Hugh said. He jumped back across the stream and followed Snape.

Harry shrugged and went to help. A few minutes later, all three were equipped with bottles of lemonade and, just in case, a pouch of Mrs. Hanson's cookies.

The southeast side of Weets Hill has a gentler slope than the north, and the three young men gradually made their way up it, wading through grass and gorse toward the summit. A long, low stone wall and a hiking path at the top scarcely impeded them at all. At no point in their climb had Hugh's Lumos failed to glow.

"What's that over there?" Harry asked, wiping perspiration from his brow and pointing at a small, obelisk-shaped marker a short ways ahead of them.

"Triangulation pillar," Hugh said. "This is one of the spots they used to measure accurate distances all over Britain."

The view was beautiful. All around them swept moor and farmland, with tiny towns, villages, and farm buildings nestled here and there in the rolling folds of land. The sweltering blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon, and Harry remembered the surprise he'd felt more than two years earlier realizing that Snape had grown up with such a sense of space and freedom at his very doorstep.

To the west there rose an unmistakably familiar shape. "Look!" Harry cried. "Isn't that the hill where we buried you?" only to notice a moment too late that another small group of walking tourists was coming up the hiking path from the north, close enough to have heard him.

"That," said Snape quite calmly, if a touch louder than was necessary, "is indeed Pendle Hill, and I'll thank you not to mention that disastrous match again. It was bad enough losing, but to be constantly reminded…"

"Sorry," said Harry. "Won't happen again."

"Good afternoon," called one of the newcomers, American or Canadian by the accent. "Hot day, isn't it?"

"Afternoon," said Hugh with a nod to the newcomers. "It certainly is. I'd wager you weren't expecting it to be this warm, were you? Neither were we."

"There, you see," said a woman behind the man who'd spoken. "I knew this wasn't seasonable. We might just as well be in Arizona." They were two men and two women, probably two couples, in their mid to late twenties. Well-to-do from their hiking clothes. All four were wearing knapsacks.

"Is that where you're from?" Harry asked politely. "Arizona?"

"Southern California," the woman replied, hooking her long blonde hair behind her ears in what was clearly a habitual gesture. "Are you from around here?"

"Not me," said Harry, "but these chaps are." He indicated Hugh and Snape.

"Great," said the second man. "You wouldn't happen to know a place nearby where we could get rooms. would you? We didn't expect to poop out this soon, but the heat's a killer."

"Sure," Harry replied without thinking. "The village below has a little hotel. It's quite nice, really. We came up through the grass, but you'd probably have a better time…" He looked to Hugh and Snape for help.

Hugh stepped forward. "Follow the wall 'til you reach a road on the left. It's the Gisburn Old Road. Next road on the…"

"…left," said Harry, now well-oriented. "It'll take you right there. The hotel's right on the road as you come into the village."

"Thanks," the man said. The four stayed at the summit for another quarter of an hour, commenting on the scenery and taking pictures. Hugh and Snape obliged by identifying landmarks and pointing out spots of local interest. They wouldn't be able to check the efficacy of Hugh's wand until the muggles left.

When that finally happened, and the three were again alone, Hugh drew out the applewood wand and tried a Lumos. Nothing happened. No light, green or any other color, appeared. Careful experimentation revealed that the dividing line was the long wall they'd climbed over. There was no tapering or fading of the magic. On the Weetsmoor side of the wall, Hugh could use the wand. On the other side, he couldn't.

"That's pretty definite," said Snape as the three followed the path the Americans had taken. "Having well-defined boundaries like that – it should bolster Robards's case. An amorphous territory that dwindles away into the ether, that's one thing, but magical borders, that something else again."

Harry clambered up onto the wall and began to walk along it, balancing in the uneven places by sticking his arms out like a tightrope walker. "When we get a bit farther on," he said, "we should test it again. It may have something to do with the wall."

"Either that or the wall was built to mark a boundary already there," Snape suggested. "I doubt that would be something we could check, but the Ministry might be inclined to. It'd probably be better for us if the wall was a marker for something deeper."

"Could it have been built to contain the magic?" Hugh asked, climbing up beside Harry on the wall. He jumped down on the other side and produced a good Lumos. Returning to the western side, his wand was lifeless. "It's still working. Someday when the weather's more pleasant, we should test the wall its entire length, south to north."

"Hullo," said Harry suddenly. "What are they doing there?" He pointed forward and to the left where they could see the four American tourists huddled together on the side of the Gisburn Old Road poring over a map.

"Probably lost." Hugh seemed not in the least surprised.

"How could they get lost?" Harry spluttered. "Stupid Americans."

Hugh shrugged. "Lots of people do it," he said.

The three were quiet approaching the Americans. As they neared, the first man saw them. "Hey!" he yelled. "What are you trying to pull? There's no road here. This place is as empty and barren…"

"It's a tricky turn," said Hugh, close enough now to reach out and turn the man by the elbow in a friendly gesture. "By that little stand of trees. They hide the road somehow."

"What trees?" the man began, then smiled. "Oh. There. Silly of me to miss it. Look Connie, it was right ahead of us all along."

"What d' you know," said Connie, the blonde. "Practically under our noses. It must be the heat."

All agreed that the heat could do strange things to one's vision and perception. For the rest of the way up the road, Hugh walked with the visitors, ushered them into the Baileys' hotel and the maternal attentions of Emily Dyson, then bade Snape and Harry a pleasant evening as he strolled off to dinner with Gillian. The two wizards watched him go in mild wonder.

"He can't be the secret keeper," Harry said to Snape as the two passed by the chapel on their way to the cottage. "He isn't old enough. But that's what just happened, wasn't it?"

Snape shook his head. "I've never heard of an entire village of secret keepers," he said. "No Fidelius charm can do that."

"I have to talk to Hermione." Harry left Snape on the outskirts of Weetsmoor and apparated to London.

To Harry's great surprise, upon hearing his story, Hermione immediately popped out to a muggle shop and returned with a map.

"What's that?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Ordnance Survey map," Hermione replied, unfolding the accordion pleats of paper and spreading the map out on the surface of her desk. It was amazing, actually, that she had enough space for the map; the desk and the floor were both piled with books and documents. "They're like the official maps of Britain." She pored over the map. "This one is for Lancashire. There. That's Weets Hill. There are three main hills in the Pendle region, and that's one. Look at the southeast."

Harry looked. The path and wall that crossed the summit were there, as was the Gisburn Old Road. He found the Liverpool-Leeds Canal, and the bike path he'd ridden twice. Even the tunnel the cow had gone through was marked. What was not marked was that side road off the Gisburn Old Road and the entire village of Weetsmoor. "Where's the village?" he demanded, as if Hermione were somehow keeping it from him.

"It's not there." Hermione considered the map more carefully. "Look at this," she told Harry. "There are springs on the north side of Weets Hill, but the hill seems to mark a watershed. The streams fed by the springs all run north. There aren't any springs on the southern side of the summit. That stream behind Snape's cottage? According to this, it isn't there."

"What is there?" Harry was dumbfounded and didn't care if it showed.

"It looks like there used to be a farm there at one time. See the markings where the fields were?" Hermione stood back to take in the map from a greater height. "I'm not even sure the empty space on this map is large enough for the entire village. There might be a size differential spell operating as well."

"If there is, it's old." Harry bent forward, his head nearly brushing Hermione's arm, their two minds intent on solving one problem. "Everybody there is a muggle who can give the secret of the place to an outsider. From what I saw, every outsider given the secret immediately forgets that he'd ever looked at the land in a different way. Those Americans did _not_ say, 'Oh gee, I wonder where those trees came from.' They acted like they'd seen the trees before, even though they were talking about the area being barren and empty. Hugh pointed out the road, and they acted like they had always been able to see it."

"There is an anomaly," Hermione said, still studying the map. "Sally Ann Perks. She went to the cottage cold. Nobody gave her any secret."

Harry thought about this for a moment. "She's a witch. Maybe the spell is only for muggles. Maybe the spell makes muggles reluctant to spread knowledge of the place around. We know people come to the hotel, but we don't know how they learn about the place. We also know that none of the visitors has ever made things like the jobberknolls public. Gad! This must be one subtle, subtle spell!" He thought for a moment. "Long-lasting, too."

"Rossendales," Hermione stated firmly. "They're the only wizarding family known to have lived in the village for more than one generation."

"That doesn't prove it was them!" Harry wasn't sure why he felt as if he were defending Snape's grandmother. "Lack of information doesn't prove it was them!"

Hermione sighed. "It doesn't prove that it wasn't them either. At this point, lack of information proves nothing. What does Professor Snape know about his grandmother's family?"

"Almost nothing." Harry paused. "Which Professor Snape are we talking about? There's three of them."

"Right now," said Hermione, beginning to fold the map up again, "I'd go with the ghost. The memories of the other two have been compromised by the soulstone flask and cloning." She glanced at a clock on the wall. "Six o'clock. Classes long over, but dinner not served yet. He might be free."

There was a fireplace in the room, one that appeared to be virgin of any fire. Hermione reached into a little container hanging from the mantle, threw a handful of its powder into the grating, and cried, "Hogwarts! Professor Snape." Nothing appeared.

"Maybe he's already in the Great Hall," Harry offered.

"Why?" said Hermione. "No one else is. If Professor Snape wanted to be alone, he stayed in his rooms." Casting another fistful of powder into the fireplace, she cried, "Hogwarts! Staff room!"

The face that appeared in the green light of the floo powder was Professor Flitwick's. "Miss Granger!" he exclaimed. "How nice to hear from you! And how may I be of service?"

"It's good to see you, too, Professor," said Hermione. "Harry and I are here working on a problem that we may come to you about in a day or two. For the moment, is Professor Snape by any chance there?"

Flitwick's face was replaced by Snape's. Harry couldn't help but notice that by floo connection it was impossible to tell it was a ghost he was talking to. Snape's face had the same quality as Flitwick's.

"Yes, Granger?"

"Professor, we need to know more about your grandmother's family. How much do you know?"

"Practically nothing. While I have you, do you happen to be anywhere near Charing Cross Road? And why is this important?"

Hermione smiled. "Foyle's," she said. "What can I get for you? And we've discovered something very interesting about Weetsmoor."

Harry and Hermione apparated to the Leaky Cauldron and from there strolled up Charing Cross Road towards Shaftesbury Avenue. Not far past Shaftesbury, on the left-hand side of the street, was the bookstore Hermione had mentioned. Not having ever been in a bookstore other than Flourish and Blotts, Harry was astounded at the size of the place. Floor upon floor of books, requiring a directory and a tiny elevator to find all the different tomes one might wish. Harry and Hermione eschewed the lift and took the spiral staircase instead.

"What are we after again?" Harry asked, having arrived at their destination and bewildered by the quantity of books on every facet of history.

"Wars of the Roses and Richard III," said Hermione, choosing one section of a massive bookcase and examining the titles one by one. "Things that aren't too technical, but not too amateur either."

"Is that what he said, because that doesn't sound a lot like Snape."

"Of course not, silly. He'd insist the more technical the better, but I don't think he wants a treatise on the development of the privy seal and signet ring as rivals to the Great Seal of England."

"You're making that up!"

"No, I'm not. Look." Hermione handed Harry a book which dealt with precisely that subject.

"Who cares about this stuff? History dorks and weirdoes?" Harry demanded of the surrounding bookshelves as he handed the volume back to Hermione.

"Who cares about the win-loss record of the Chudley Cannons," Hermione shot back. "The only interesting thing about Quidditch is watching the game being played in front of you. Only dorks and weirdoes care about the history of the teams."

"That's different."

"No it isn't. Take this book and Professor Snape's interest in Richard III. If the Great Seal isn't important anymore, does its Keeper have any political influence? Who did have power and authority back then, besides the king, of course?"

"Does it matter?" Harry was confident that Hermione had paid loads more attention to her lessons in muggle schools than he had.

"End of medieval Britain, rise of the Tudors, murder of the princes in the Tower…"

"Murder! Who murdered the princes in the Tower? Would that be the Tower of London?" A good murder mystery, Harry thought, might even make history interesting.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "The standard villain is Richard III himself. Or at least murderers paid by him. Yet there are legions of Richard III fanatics who claim he didn't do it. No one has proven that anyone else was responsible, but the only remaining evidence is circumstantial." She returned to perusing titles.

Harry was not to be put off. "Why don't they do tests on the bodies?" he asked. "I don't mean then, I mean now. Let the modern police have a go. Modern forensics. I bet they'd find the killers for sure. Hugh Latimer, now. He's a policeman. Let him look at the evidence."

"Right," said Hermione, shaking her head. "Except the royal family won't allow the remains to be examined. And I don't blame them. You're not going to find the killers five hundred years after the fact, and even if you did, it wouldn't change anything. Why stir up a hornets' nest over something that can't be altered? It's disrespectful to the remains to make them the center of a media circus."

It was clear that Hermione would counter him at every turn. Harry decided to let the matter drop with the exception of one point. "Professor Snape seems to think this is important. What if he wants to pursue it?"

"Then we don't get in his way." Hermione turned away from the bookcases with five volumes in her hands. "This looks like a selection that will keep him busy for a while. We go with these."

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_Thursday, September 9, 1999_

Over the next few days, Harry, Snape, and Hugh tested the perimeter of Weetsmoor. The north boundary was Logan's orchard. Eastward was Hackett's pig farm. The southwest limit was Mrs. Wainwright's chickens. South was the road from the Baileys' hotel, just where it met the Gisburn Old Road. Snape and Hugh even made a map. They were all ready when Robards showed up on Thursday evening to discuss the issue.

Robards wasn't the only one. Hermione arrived about five minutes later with a small pile of books and joined them in the front room.

"I didn't know you were working on this," Harry blurted out, aware even as he spoke that he sounded ungracious.

"I'm not," Hermione replied just as brusquely. "The Professor asked me to come."

"Oh, no," cried the younger version of Snape, rising and glancing quickly around. "He's not coming, too, is he?"

"I assume that's why he said he'd meet me here." Hermione set the books on a side table. "I don't think you have to worry, though. I doubt he wants to talk to you."

"Then why is he coming here?" Snape's voice had risen by several notes.

"Now, Russ," soothed Mrs. Hanson, bringing in cake, coffee, and tea, "I wouldn't mind seeing him again, you know. I rather miss him."

"And I you, dear lady," came the somewhat lower tones of the ghost's voice as he glided through the cottage door. "And the rest of you need not concern yourselves. I'll not be sticking my fingers into your little pies."

"Then why are you here?" Russ asked. He ignored Mrs. Hanson's frown.

"Have you any idea," the ghost replied, fixing Russ with an unblinking stare, "how boring it gets having to wait for a house-elf to turn your pages for you? And he's not my house-elf – he obeys McGonagall as headmistress now – so I am kept waiting at odd hours while he handles other duties. That, plus no one at Hogwarts knows enough about real British history to carry on a decent conversation with."

They split into two groups, with Russ, Hugh, and Robards in the front room checking over the Ordnance Survey map, while the Professor, Hermione, and Mrs. Hanson moved to the kitchen, Mrs. Hanson being more familiar with English kings than with magic. After a moment's hesitation, Harry joined the three in the kitchen. He already knew about the village boundaries.

"What I want to know is," said the ghost without preamble, "why didn't anybody talk to the five hundred deaf, dumb, and blind guards."

"I don't think there were quite that many soldiers there," Hermione pointed out.

"There were enough. The Tower was a fortress, a royal residence, an occasional prison, and housed an armory, the treasury, and a menagerie. Not only were there soldiers there, there was a whole slew of servants as well. Now if I was the servant boy whose duty it was to carry dinner to the two princes every day, and then one day I was told I didn't have to do it anymore, believe me, I would remember that and report on it if asked."

Hermione shook her head. "You'd be afraid. If you said anything, the king would lock you up."

"That would hold true," Snape retorted, "if Richard had had a long and prosperous reign, but he didn't. He was king for two years, one month, and twenty-seven days, and then he got chopped unexpectedly by his greatest enemies who would have given anything for proof positive that the boys had disappeared while in Richard's care. Servants and soldiers would have been queuing up in droves to tell Henry VII exactly when little Ned and Dickon had gone missing. Nothing. They had nothing. They couldn't even concoct an official version until more than fifteen years later, and that was two years _after_ Perkin Warbeck was executed."

"I read a book once," volunteered Mrs. Hanson, "where they decided the boys were alive and well until that Tudor person became king, and then he killed them."

"No," said Hermione. "There were already rumors flying around England at the time of Buckingham's rebellion that the boys were dead. It would have been highly beneficial to Richard to be able to produce them safe and sound. If he didn't, it's because he couldn't."

"What kind of time frame are we talking about here?" Harry asked. "When was this rebellion?" He grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper to take notes on. This really was turning into a mystery. "Oh," he added, "does this have anything to do with Sir Nicholas?"

Snape inclined his head in Harry's direction. "Sir Nicholas has informed me that both he and one of my ancestors, a certain Randolph Prince, were adherents of Richard III's in Yorkshire, when he was still the Duke of Gloucester and had no plans of becoming king. I would rather like to discover that they supported a decent person rather than a murderer. Sir Nicholas has no doubts. He is still a great admirer of Richard's"

Harry nodded. "Time frame," he prompted.

"Fourteen-eighty-three," said Snape. "April ninth, Edward IV dies. His brother Richard is in Yorkshire and his elder son Edward in Ludlow with the queen's brother, Anthony Woodville. Nobody really moves fast. Richard has his nephew proclaimed king in York and gathers an entourage of nobles for the ride south. The late king's will makes him Protector of the Realm, so he already has all the power. Three weeks after Edward's death, Richard and Woodville, with the boy king, meet in Northampton on their way to London. They're joined by Buckingham."

"Yes," said Hermione, "but that's when Richard makes his first move. He arrests Woodville and replaces the young king's servants with people loyal to him. That doesn't sound like someone with no interest in more power."

"You forget," countered Snape, "that the Woodville queen had already been making moves for a few weeks. Edward IV made Richard Protector, but that status lasts only until the new king is crowned. The dead king planned for a period of months, maybe years, before his twelve-year-old son would be crowned. The queen had the coronation set for May 4, less than a month after her husband's death. And in all the administrative orders there was plenty of mention of Woodvilles, but no mention of the Duke of Gloucester. They were already squeezing him out in a coup attempt of their own. That was treasonable, and Richard was responding to news of what they were doing. You do know that the queen's brother and her son from her first marriage stole the treasury of England and took it onto the high seas?" Snape smiled at the frown lines that appeared on Hermione's forehead.

"Wait a minute!" Harry cried. "That still doesn't give Richard a claim to the throne. His brother had two sons. I guess he probably had a daughter or two as well. That would put Richard pretty far back in the line. How did he justify being made king instead of protector?"

Snape shrugged. "Edward IV loved the ladies. He tomcatted all over England. The only reason he married Elizabeth Woodville is because she wouldn't sleep with him until he did. Trouble was, she wasn't the first woman who pulled that stunt. The first woman was Eleanor Talbot, and she was still alive and married to Edward when he married Elizabeth. So you see, all the children were bastards."

"Right," said Harry incredulously. "And who was the sneaking spy who told Richard that story?"

"The Bishop of Bath and Wells," said Snape. "He officiated at the first marriage."

"Oh," said Harry. "Not so sneaking, then."

Hermione played Devil's Advocate. "Don't you think there's a possibility that Bishop Stillington was just angling for position and favor? He wasn't the kingdom's most saintly person, you know."

"No worse than anyone else and better than most," Snape shot back. "Why didn't Henry VII accuse him of lying about it? He was captured just five days after Bosworth, and it would have helped Henry to have the man stand up in front of everyone and explain that the whole story was a fabrication. Instead Stillington got a pardon for unspecified crimes, and wasn't locked up again until he joined the next Yorkist uprising. I'll tell you why. It's because Henry couldn't afford to have anyone… _anyone_… re-examine the illegitimacy question because it was _true!_ Henry VII claimed the English throne by right of conquest because he didn't have a solid dynastic leg to stand on, not his own and not his wife's."

"It would," Hermione admitted, "explain George."

"Who's George?" Harry asked.

"Him?" chuckled Mrs. Hanson. "He's the one drowned in a butt of malmsey." She was clearly following the conversation.

"He was the middle brother," said Hermione. "The one in between Edward and Richard. He was tried and convicted of… well… saying things, imprisoned in the Tower, and… he died."

Snape snorted. "He impugned the legitimacy of both Edward and his children, tried to stir up rebellion, and was executed. But you're right. If he had good information about the marriage, he had reason to hope he'd be king one day."

"My money's on the Duke of Buckingham for the murder," said Hugh from the door. "I'd love to get you lot together with Gillian. As far as she's concerned, Richard was the devil himself and murdered everybody, including a couple who died after he did. But then he was one of the harriers of Scotland, so you can hardly blame her."

"Do you know about this?" Harry asked.

Hugh sauntered into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. "A lot of Yorkshire people favor Richard," he said. "The Duke of Gloucester was popular up here."

"But this is Lancashire," said Hermione, puzzled.

"Only since seventy-four when they redrew the county lines. Foulridge has always been Lancashire. Salterforth and Barnoldswick are traditionally Yorkshire. Weetsmoor is just north of the old county line and was West Riding for most of its existence."

"That can't be true," interjected Russ from the doorway. "We used to come up here from the Colne area when I was a boy. I don't remember crossing into Yorkshire."

"It's not like there were signs," said Hugh at precisely the same moment that the ghost said, "You're still a boy." The two merely glanced at each other, but Russ got huffy.

"I wish you would stop pretending to be so superior," he snapped at the Professor. "I have just as much experience as you do, and I'm just as smart."

"Prove it," said the ghost.

"I don't have to. I am you." Russ's hands were balled into fists. "We are in every way equal. You are not my superior."

The ghost looked down at his counterpart, a feat made possible by the fact that he didn't have to keep his feet on the ground. Then, in a sudden reversal, he turned to Hugh. "Is Gillian Scottish!" he exclaimed.

"She's from Glasgow," Harry volunteered. "Her maiden name's Ross."

"How do you know that?" Hugh demanded.

"I don't know," Harry shrugged. "She must've mentioned it."

"This is delightful." Snape's ghost rubbed his hands gleefully. "Can you see her and McGonagall…"

"You're changing the subject!" Russ shrieked, now sounding like the ghost on a wail. "Don't do that!"

Robards joined them at that moment from the front room. "Rossendales," he said. "We really need to know more about the Rossendales. They seem to be the key to the whole prob… Are you having a row?" He looked from Russ to the ghost. "That's counter-productive."

"I'm not having a row with anybody," said the ghost. "It's this 'young' person who seems to be in a dither. We were discussing Richard III."

"Irrelevant," Robards declared, squashing the quarrel right there. "We're here to investigate the village. Other discussions are self-indulgent. Who around here would have the most information on the Rossendales?"

"That's easy," Hugh said. "The oldest is Mrs. Wainwright. After her, there's Mrs. Dyson who was Mrs. Prince's friend and contemporary. If anyone knows anything, it's those two women. After that, I'd suggest checking the parish registries, but given the witch thing, they may not have a lot of information. I'd go with Mrs. Wainwright."

"I must admit," said Robards, "I tend to agree with you."

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	17. Chapter 17 – A Reasonable Sanctuary 3

**STORY NUMBER FOUR: A Reasonable Sanctuary 3**

_Friday, September 10, 1999_

Harry did not accompany Russ on his visit to Mrs. Wainwright's the next day, reasoning that a matter so personal as family history ought to be shared between the Snapes before it was disseminated to others. Instead he prowled around outside the cottage, and was just asking himself whether the small, furry insect he'd glimpsed among the nettles was or was not an actual glumbumble when he was called up from the stream by the returning Russ.

A few minutes later, Harry was seeking admittance at the Hogwarts gate, a memory vial in his shirt pocket.

"This had better be worthwhile," grumbled Snape's ghost as he and Harry first trudged up the stairs to the library – Harry trudged, the ghost glided – and then back down to the potion master's rooms.

"He thinks it's worthwhile," said Harry. "Since he shares your value judgments, you probably will, too." Harry was carrying the books they'd checked out. Knotty had been dismissed for the afternoon, and Snape's classes were assigned research projects.

"You accept a lot on faith," said the ghost. "I am not so sure."

His pensieve, with its perpetual nighttime memory floating near the surface, stood on the desk. Harry entered first with the books, leaving them on the memory desk inside. He then exited the memory while the ghostly professor entered. Last, Harry took the memory vial from his pocket and released pensieve Snape into the floating mist. Snape's tiny image hovered for a moment above the basin.

"We may be a while," he said.

"I'll go find something to keep me busy," said Harry.

Inside the pensieve memory, the twenty-one-year-old Snape sat reading. Snape's ghost – now a tangible-looking replica of the once-living professor – paced by the door into the bedroom. "Why do you get to look so young?" he snapped as pensieve Snape – Severus – floated into view.

"Do you mean now, or when I'm in the body?" Severus asked with a smirk. "He's even younger."

"Is there an explanation?"

"We think," said Severus, "that he's the age he is because it's the youngest he can be and still be an adult. At seventeen, he's legally independent, but nothing more."

"And you?" The ghost glowered. "You're not seventeen. I'd put you around twenty-five or twenty-six."

"We don't know," Severus admitted. "We can only speculate. I think it's because most people's minds don't age with their bodies. Lots of people who are physically old have young minds. I'm pure mind. You, on the other hand, are a ghost. You reflect the moment of death and bear its scars. I'm the relative age your mind was when you… we… died."

"Great," said the ghost. "My brain got stuck in my twenties. Such a nondescript age. What's this news you have to impart?" He pulled a chair away from the desk and sat down.

"I went to see Cora Wainwright today. To talk about the Rossendales." Severus glanced about uncomfortably. "Do you think you might do that for me," he asked. "I can't manipulate this environment."

The Professor obliged by positioning another chair where the two could sit and talk. "Now you know how I feel out there," he commented. "What did you learn?"

Severus settled into the chair. "Nana's mother was a Rossendale," he said.

"So?" said the Professor, then paused. "No, Nana's father would have been a Rossendale. Nana's mother…"

"Was a Rossendale. She didn't have a father."

The two Snapes sat silent for a few moments, then the Professor spoke. "That is an inaccuracy. What you mean is that no one knew who her father was. Not even witches come into the world through virgin births."

Severus sighed. "Mrs. Wainwright finds it highly amusing. As a girl it meant nothing to her, but as she grew older, she tried to sort it out. The cottage was the Rossendale place, and there was always an old lady Rossendale there. At least that's the village legend. The legend, by the way, that the older people knew, but not the younger anymore; she's the last. At any rate, nobody ever heard of a Mr. Rossendale. The generations of old lady Rossendales always had a daughter, but no husband in evidence. Nobody questioned it – that's just the way it was. Until Nana married Richard Prince."

The Professor's eyes narrowed. "Does the estimable Mrs. Wainwright postulate an explanation for Nana's motive in flouting family tradition?"

"She thinks it was the school." Severus knit his brow. "After World War I, Weetsmoor got its first state school. For the younger children. Mrs. Wainwright and Nana were about nine years old. It was probably the first time in history that the local witch's daughter was educated with muggles. No one thought much about it because it was the first state school for the muggle children, too. New for everybody."

"I see," said the Professor. "Nana may have learned that the proper young lady does not go running off to bear a by-blow child and return with the living representation of the episode. Thus do middle-class morals infiltrate traditional value systems. Poor Nana."

"Do you honestly think that these," the ghost continued, gesturing toward the books they'd gleaned from the library, "will help any?"

"I don't know," Severus confessed. "We've never researched the question before."

"Poor job if there's not a mention of a Rossendale in the whole collection."

"Still, somebody…"

"Somebody…" echoed the ghost.

The person popped into both minds at the same instant, one remembered, and the other 'known.' "First year," said the Professor suddenly.

"Herbology."

"He knew Nana."

"Mullein. Where is he now? Is he still alive?"

"Sprout might know." The Professor was up and out of the pensieve in an instant, leaving a highly frustrated Severus in his wake.

"Get back here!" Severus screamed after the departing ghost. "At least get Potter!" It was to no avail. The Professor was gone.

After several minutes, pensieve Snape drifted up to the surface of the memory basin. "House-elf," he called. "Isn't there a house-elf who's supposed to be monitoring this situation?"

The plosive 'pop' of apparation announced the arrival of said house-elf. "Is Knotty at small Professor Snape's service," the elf announced. "What does small professor need?"

"Do you have to call me small?" Severus's irritation gave an unpleasant edge to his voice.

"Wizards as is smaller than Knotty," the house-elf pointed out with devastating logic, "is small. Knotty cannot help that."

"Look," Severus insisted, "I used to be Headmaster here, and you should do what I say."

"Used to be," Knotty giggled. "Small professor is very funny."

Severus began pacing in the restricted area at the surface of the basin. "Harry Potter's here at Hogwarts," he said. "Go tell him to come here. I need him."

"Harry Potter is no longer student at Hogwarts. Knotty cannot give him orders."

"Well, then a different elf." Severus sifted through his memory. "There was a sad one, very nice. Free, but she works here anyway. I think her name was Winky. Get her."

Knotty grew morose. "Winky is not here. She is leaving Hogwarts after death of Dobby. Knotty does not know where Winky is gone."

Severus had frozen and stared at the house-elf. Then, without a word, he dove back into the pensieve, a separate little mist from the memory, curled at the bottom of the basin. Knotty, used to this kind of treatment from wizards, simply returned to the kitchens.

xxxxxxxxxx

Harry was watching three members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team practice when he was joined suddenly by Snape's ghost. "I need you," the ghost said without preamble. "Specifically, I need your wand."

"What's happened?" Harry asked, the broom work of others instantly forgotten.

"He's gone all catatonic on us," said the Professor. "Cowering in the bottom of the pensieve, and won't come out for love or money. You need to bring him out with a spell."

They were already moving up the hill. "What caused it?" Harry demanded. "What brought it on? What did you say to him?"

"Why do you assume I said anything? For your information, I left the office to seek out Professor Sprout, to ascertain if she knew the whereabouts of her predecessor, Professor Mullein. When I got back, the midget was a basket case. I have no idea how he got that way. I had been led to believe he only had fits while joined to the automaton. Apparently he is unstable all on his own."

"No," said Harry, "he doesn't just fall apart. Something upset him."

Back in Snape's office, Harry took out his wand and brought Severus to the surface of the basin. The sight of Harry brought the little figure to life at once. "You rat!" he shrieked. "You soulless, insensitive louse! It's not bad enough you couldn't remember the names of all the students who died fighting the Dark Lord – at least you had the excuse that you'd never cared enough about them to learn their names – but why didn't you tell me Dobby was dead! I know. He was 'just a house-elf.' Earth to Potter – house-elves matter!"

Harry was taken aback. "I didn't know you knew Dobby," he stammered.

"Not know him! Did it ever occur to you that he valeted me at the Malfoy mansion? Or that he was still here and under my authority that year I was Headmaster? You idiot! I wrestled with him over your broomstick in your second year! How could I not know him?"

"Sorry," said Harry, his cheeks burning at the rebuke. "My bad."

"Aren't you being just a tad emotional about this?" asked Snape's ghost. "I mean, yes, he was a house-elf, and that ought to count for something, but he certainly wasn't among your nearest and dearest. Not like, say, McGonagall. Or Flitwick."

"Both of whom, if you recall, tried to murder you the last time they saw you alive!" Pensieve Snape was giving a borderline illustration of the phrase 'hopping mad.' "Does turning into a ghost stunt you emotionally?"

"Does taking up residence in a reconstructed body remove all semblance of control?"

"Whoa!" cried Harry, stepping between them. He put up his hands to keep the two physically separated before he remembered that neither was corporeal. "Are we sure you two are the same person?"

"No," said the ghostly Professor. "We're not. He's an impostor."

"If he is," Harry retorted, "it's your fault because you gave him to me."

"Are you sure of that? Was he at all times between then and now within your sight and within your possession?"

That made Harry falter. "No… not really. But he knows everything you know, and he acts like you."

"Potter, you are a blind idiot. In no way does this poor excuse for anything act like me." The Professor motioned toward the pensieve with a silvery hand. "Look at him. He's on the verge of a temper tantrum."

Inspiration struck Harry then. He was in no way obliged to be in the middle. Turning to the pensieve, he said calmly, "Ball's in your court."

The mannikin resorted to what many would consider a low blow. "Mrs. Hanson likes me best," he sneered.

"Mrs. Hanson is, unfortunately, growing senile. She likes you best because that is the age that she remembers you as. If she were in full possession of her faculties…"

"Wait a minute!" yelped Harry. "I haven't seen any indication that Mrs. Hanson's losing any of her faculties. Frankly, I find it kind of surprising that you'd talk that way about her."

"Why?" the Professor countered. "Because Mr. Wear-My-Heart-On-My-Sleeve here dotes on her shortbread? What makes you think I ever bore any especial affection for Mrs. Hanson?"

"Gotcha!" cried Harry. "You're not completely Snape either. I met Mrs. Hanson at your funeral. I saw the memories of you with her before they were even a day in the soulstone. Heck, Robards visited her with you and saw the two of you together in the flesh. The real Snape wouldn't talk like that. Maybe he wouldn't be as emotional as… eh… Severus here, but he wouldn't be as cold as you."

"Is there a point to this tirade?" asked the Professor, feigning a yawn.

"Yes," Harry said flatly. "Either the two of you are intentionally taking extreme sides in order to score off each other, or neither one of you is the true, whole Snape. Actually, this is kind of fascinating for me because I spent six years watching the way the two of you interacted inside the brain of one person, and it's revealing to see the different sides of the same mind sparring with each other like…"

"Spare us your similes, Potter," said the Professor. "You're wrong, but the effort it would take to correct you is not worth it. Where were we before we got into this altercation?"

That was the opening for Severus. "Do you realize, Potter, that Winky has absconded? Left? Run away? Apparently she couldn't take the loss of Dobby. You wouldn't happen to know where she went, would you?"

Harry sighed. "What would you do with her if you found her?" he asked. "She's a free elf and can go wherever she likes. I, for one, am not about to get in her way."

"Maybe we wouldn't be getting in her way. Maybe she wants to be found."

The ghostly Professor practically spat his disgust. "Why would any house-elf want to be found by you?"

xxxxxxxxxx

_Saturday, September 11, 1999_

The heat wave broke on the weekend and, as if inspired by the cooler air, Robards returned.

"I need to bring this before the Wizengamot soon. Do you have anything for me?"

Harry and Russ laid out for him the physical boundaries of the area inside which a muggle – a proven muggle – could use a wand. They catalogued the creatures – a list that now included glumbumbles, mokes, and the possible sighting of a snidget – that inhabited the area. Robards already had information about the botanical anomalies. Finally, they gave him what little they had been able to glean about the matrilineal wizarding family of Rossendale and its possible relationship to the observed phenomena.

The rest was up to Robards.

"Don't worry," Russ confided to Harry after Robards had left. "Remember, he was the prosecuting attorney who nearly put me in Azkaban. Nothing gets past him."

xxxxxxxxxx

_Friday, September 17, 1999 (the first quarter)_

The first session of the hearing before the Wizengamot on the matter of whether the Lancashire village of Weetsmoor should or should not be considered a Reasonable Sanctuary within the meaning of British Wizarding Law and the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy convened the morning of the following Friday. This was mostly for administrative purposes, though Robards did ask Harry to accompany him to the hearing as an expert witness if needed.

The first point to decide was whether the Wizengamot was competent to consider the case at all. Harry thought this quite funny, even after Robards explained what legal competence meant as opposed, for example, to IQ. "Now you've got me hoping they'll declare themselves incompetent," he giggled to Robards. "I know lots of wizards who'd agree whole-heartedly."

Robards professed to not being amused.

The first and only witness on the issue was a seedy-looking clerk named Bardolph Brief with the International Magical Office of Law. It was here that Robards made his first, but highly important, tactical move. As the clerk of the council moved forward, he asked, "What are you doing?"

The clerk paused. "I'm taking his oath to tell the truth," he said, looking to Kingsley Shacklebolt who, as Minister for Magic, was presiding. "I always take their oaths."

"Why?"

"Why, so that they'll tell the truth." The clerk was visibly puzzled and a little shaken at the challenge.

Robards stepped forward. "But this is purely an administrative matter. This man is being asked to advise this council on a question that any one of us, by simply looking at the document, could find out for himself. Having him here is merely insuring that the information is entered on the record. Of course he's going to tell the truth. He's a respectable, honest wizard. What possible reason would he have to lie?"

"It is standard procedure," Shacklebolt reminded Robards.

"In criminal cases and civil suits, yes," Robards agreed. "Cases, may I remind the council, where there is one side that stands to win, and another side that stands to lose. In such cases, it is perfectly natural that some witnesses might take sides, and therefore their oath is necessary. The question before us now, however, is one of purely administrative map drawing. No winners, no losers, no temptation to lie. I submit that it would save time in the long run to waive the oath requirement."

There was almost no debate. Robards's motion was approved nearly unanimously, the sole opposition being from an elderly witch whose devotion to ritual was so great that she also insisted that all the candles be extinguished at one blow if a birthday wish were to be granted.

Mr. Brief took the stand and, obviously enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame, managed to draw them out into forty-five with charts, graphs, and citations. The charts and graphs were totally unnecessary and did not affect the case one iota, but the citations were pertinent.

"Excuse me," said Shacklebolt after two members of the council fell asleep and had to be shaken awake by their neighbors, (by this time even Shacklebolt was practicing how to stifle a yawn). "Is the issue of Sanctuary addressed in the International Statute?"

Brief hemmed and hawed and was forced to admit that it was.

"And what does the Statute say?"

"Article 18, section 10, subsection 32 says that each signatory country's Ministry has total jurisdiction over Sanctuary cases should one ever arise."

Shacklebolt let out a sigh of relief. "I would say that covers the matter," he said.

"Except," interjected Brief, "that that subsection was added to the Code by the delegates from Papua New Guinea who were trying to have their entire nation declared a Sanctuary in order to preserve a long-standing and highly lucrative trade in amulets and other _objets d'enchantement_ with the local muggles. The British delegation objected strongly at the time, but was outvoted."

"Really," said Shacklebolt, "do we have to be bound by the opinions of delegates from over three hundred years ago? The situation must have changed since then."

"It is British tradition," Brief insisted, "and tradition must not lightly be flouted."

"Objection," said Robards, rising again, calm and collected. "The Statute in question was negotiated and ratified in 1692. The Acts of Union that joined England and Scotland into one kingdom were not passed until 1707. Technically there could not have been a British delegation in 1692. There would have been an English delegation and a Scottish delegation."

"Meaning?" asked Shacklebolt.

"I wish to ask if Mr. Brief knows which of the two delegations opposed the Sanctuary clause."

This led to further hemming and hawing, during which Bardolph Brief admitted that it was the Scottish delegation.

"But the village whose case is before us is in England," Robards concluded. "The opinions of the Scottish delegation have no weight here."

Two things were decided by the Wizengamot that day. 1) The case lay within their sole jurisdiction, and 2) witnesses did not have to be sworn in.

"You," Harry told Robards as they apparated back to Weetsmoor, "are a genius."

"I don't understand," said Hugh, sharing afternoon tea with Russ, Mrs. Hanson, Harry, and Gillian that same day. "What's wrong with the oath to tell the truth?"

"Because it says the whole truth," said Russ, passing around the strawberry tarts. "This way, you can fudge information about me."

"And that is important… why?" asked Gillian, after which she took a bite of tart.

"They think he's dead," Harry explained. "Never forget that this same council voted to have Russ incarcerated at the Ministry for the rest of his life as a legally non-human phenomenon. We had to fake his suicide to free him. They think he's his own non-magical nephew. If we were sworn to tell the whole truth, we could be forced to reveal who and where he is, and they'd lock him up again so they could exploit his ability to leave his body and enter someone else's brain. This way, we can phrase our answers so they're technically true but misleading. It's brilliant, really. Robards is great. I love watching him work."

"It's a lot more entertaining when he's on your side," said Russ, also sampling the strawberry tart. "I've been on both sides. He's a lot scarier when he's against you."

"Why, dear? What did he do to you?" Mrs. Hanson asked. "He always seemed so nice. I remember when he came asking about my allergies. That polite he was."

"I… eh…" Russ hesitated. "I was involved in a criminal organization when I left school. That was in '78. In my favor, I realized what they were doing and left them two years later, but they arrested me for it, and I can't blame them. He was the prosecutor at my trial." Russ was silent for a moment. "You know, until he started asking questions, I would have sworn up and down that I was an innocent dupe, but he… he exposed all my actions and stripped all my self-delusion away and showed me what I really was. I swear, that afternoon I was ready to go to prison, but they let me keep my job at Hogwarts on probation. I never held it against him. He was doing his job, and I deserved it."

"it's good you can see it that way," said Gillian. "So many people try to run away from their responsibilities. I confess that if you hadn't told me, I'd never 've known there was any bad blood between you and Robards. You've adjusted to your paths very well."

"I only ever saw him on your side," Harry said. "He was good then."

"Despite the fact that he lost the case?" Russ shook his head. "So far his presence hasn't done me a lot of good. All in all, though, I'd prefer him with me to against me."

"Are they going to call me as a witness?" Hugh asked. "I'm not sure I'd like to be questioned by a bunch of wizards."

"That's one of the things that Robards has to work out," said Harry. "We've talked about it. He doesn't want them to interrogate you and then wipe your memory. So we have to get that established first – that they can't erase what you know. If he can't do that, then he won't call you."

"Very kind of him," Hugh said, though he sounded dubious.

"You know," added Gillian after a moment, "this business of wiping memories, I find the whole concept absolutely barbarous. You and your people have no right to tamper with my mind. If I see something, and I know it happened, I have a right to remember it. I have a right to my experiences. This business of wiping memories makes me think of studying totalitarian rulers like Stalin and Hitler. Airbrushing people out of photographs and rewriting encyclopedias. My reaction is that this wizard Ministry of yours must be really evil to do things like that."

"Yeah," countered Harry, "but remember that we had to endure centuries of being burnt at the stake because muggles were afraid of magical people…"

"Except," interjected Russ, "that England never executed witches for _being_ magical, just for committing crimes with magic, and then by hanging, not burning…"

"Which is totally irrelevant in the twentieth century!" cried Gillian. "Nobody executes people for being witches anymore. It's a non-issue."

"Lord Voldemort," Harry said quietly, "caused the collapse of the Brockdale bridge."

Neither Hugh nor Gillian nor Mrs. Hanson spoke for a few minutes. The stillness of the room grew oppressive. Then Hugh said, "Right. We're talking about a cover-up, as the Americans would say."

"NO!" Harry cried, though Russ was curiously quiet. "Nobody was covering up anything! We just didn't want…"

"…anyone to know who was really responsible. So that we wouldn't be able to accuse the real perpetrators." Hugh smiled, but the smile wasn't a happy one.

"That's not fair," Harry insisted. "If you'd known who really did it…"

"…we would have been able to go after them and maybe bring them to justice," finished Gillian.

"No." Harry was beginning to feel like the whole world was against him. "You explain it to them," he demanded of Russ.

Russ cleared his throat. "The position of the wizarding world since 1692," he said "has been that non-magical folk must never learn of the existence of magical folk under any circumstances whatsoever, and that in order to prevent this, magical folk have the right to alter the memories of the non-magical."

"That," Gillian stated with passionate force, "is disgusting."

xxxxxxxxxx

_Sunday, September 19, 1999_

Interestingly enough, Robards agree with Gillian when he next appeared, which happened to be Sunday.

"What are you doing here?" Russ demanded of the head of Magical Law Enforcement when he apparated into the yard about twenty minutes before services began at the chapel. Russ and Mrs. Hanson were on their way there, having just stepped out of the cottage.

"Thought I'd go to church," said Robards calmly. "Are you honestly going to endanger my immortal soul by preventing me?"

That shut Russ up for all of thirty seconds (a longish time; try it with a stopwatch) during which he and Mrs. Hanson left the yard and started walking down the lane, then he said, "Have you been in a church before?"

"What? Do you think being a wizard keeps me out?" Robards followed them, his eyes narrowed in exasperation. "You know, more of us than you reckon have squib and muggle relations. Within the context of the wizarding world, it would have been very strange if I had not been to the odd christening, wedding, funeral… whatever. It's not my fault that you and Potter have minimal relatives."

_That_ got a reaction – a forceful one. "What are you doing," Russ cried, "comparing me to him! I grew up knowing I was a wizard! I had my mother, and my grandmother, and…"

"Yes," said Robards, "and whom else? On the one hand you had two generations of female relatives, one in each generation, and both witches. All other family members on that side were dead. On the muggle side you had a father, a grandfather, a grandmother, and a great-grandfather. Am I leaving anyone out?"

Russ shook his head, not certain of what was coming.

"You knew you were a wizard," Robards continued, "because of two women. You knew you were a muggle because of four people. I'm not stupid. I've done my research. You grew up with an extended family of exactly six people, two of them witches and four of them muggles. For some reason you think this gives you insight into the muggle world. You may be right; your experience is not normal for us, but consider this. Of my two aunts and three uncles, two married muggles, and one was a squib, giving me seven non-magical cousins. Do you think I know nothing of the muggle world with seven non-magical cousins? If I were a Dumbledore, none of my relatives would ever have married muggles. If I were a Black, those who did would have been disowned. As it is, I'm a Robards, and we have this great mix of first, second, and third cousins. Do you honestly believe you can teach me anything about the muggle world? The residents of this village, yes. They can teach me a lot. You? Not so much. What do you really know that I don't?"

Russ paused for a moment before venturing, "Dr. Who?"

"Who?" Robards asked,

"Exactly," said Russ. "Who."

"On first," added Mrs. Hanson. "I did always love it when they did that one."

"What are you two talking about?" Robards demanded.

Russ shrugged. "Maybe I can teach you a thing or two about muggles. Be nice and I will. Back to the first question. What are you doing here? Why go to church with us today?"

"To see the vicar," said Robards.

"He's a team curate," Mrs. Hanson corrected him. "A part-timer. He's only here Saturdays and…"

"Sundays," Robards finished for her. "That's why I'm here today."

The fact that both Russ and Mrs. Hanson attended services regularly had increased attendance at the little chapel, and it was fairly full when they arrived a few moments before the scheduled time. Fred Allsop and Sam Logan were there, but it was Mrs. Wainwright who got to Robards first.

"It's good to see you again," she cried, coming over and laying a hand on his arm. "Are you visiting Kate and Russ for the weekend? I'll admit I wasn't certain I'd ever see you again, not this soon at any rate."

"Just here for the day, Mrs. Wainwright," Robards admitted. "I thought it would be nice to see a bit of the village. I seem to recall that you keep chickens. I've never been on a chicken farm."

"I wouldn't call it a farm," laughed Mrs. Wainwright, "but if you've a mind to escort me home, I'll show you what chickens are like before you stick them in the pot."

Allsop cut into the conversation. "I'd imagine you'd be interested in the barn as well. You said something of the sort at the house warming. And Sam's orchard."

"It's good of you to invite me," said Robards. "The truth is, I'm very interested in both."

There was general movement then as people took their places for the service and Rev. Davidson emerged from the tiny vestry robed in a cassock-alb and stole. As the service progressed, Russ was moderately surprised to see that Robards seemed to know what he was doing and to note that he did not, as Russ himself did not, go forward to receive communion.

"Not a communicant?" Davidson asked mildly as he greeted Robards following the service.

"Not baptized," replied Robards. "My family were all agnostics."

Hugh and Gillian also came over to say hello, at which point Gillian cornered Robards and asked him point-blank about the memory discussion.

Robards sighed. "You're not getting us at our best, are you? You're friends with someone our council declared non-human, you've been visited by the magic police – oh, yes, I know about Miss Perks – and now we're discussing the possibility of wiping your brain. Not our best moments at all. A lot of the problem is bureaucratic inertia coupled with the fact that there are still a few places in the world where the suspicion that someone is a witch or wizard can get them killed."

"Where?" Gillian asked, shocked.

"Papua New Guinea," Robards replied. "Africa, Asia, the Americas, even, from time to time, here in the U.K., though generally by mobs rather than judicial procedure. Most of the time the victims aren't even real witches and wizards, but that doesn't make us feel any more secure. Back around the time of some serious witch hunting, the end of the seventeenth century, we adopted a law that required keeping ourselves secret from the non-magic world. Since the non-magic world thinks it has the right to kill us, we consider that we have the right to make them forget we exist."

"I see," said Gillian. "So you agree…"

"I didn't say that. I've never had my brain wiped and would do everything in my power to prevent it. It doesn't matter if it's selective or total, memory tampering is a horribly intrusive violation of a person and his privacy. We haven't even tried to investigate the neurological consequences of the action. Understandable in the seventeenth century, but unforgivable now. The regulations, however, say wipe, and we wipe. What we need to do is change the regulations, but you know how bureaucracy is. Me – I prefer disinformation."

"So do I," remarked Hugh, coming up behind Gillian. "Disinformation is frequently better than the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"Hugh Latimer!" Gillian cried, drawing momentary attention to the threesome from the rest of the departing congregation. "How could you? Do you lie to people as part of your job?"

"Be reasonable, Gill," said Hugh, glancing around and noting that no one was really paying attention to their conversation. "What Harry told us Friday about the Brockdale Bridge. What would have happened if the government had come out and flatly told us that it had been destroyed through the enchantment of a powerful evil wizard as part of a war in a British subculture of witches?"

"All right," Gillian agreed. "I see the point. Rather than believing the truth, the public would assume either that the official making the statement was barmy, or that the government was trying to conceal something worse. Poor construction was a reason we could accept. But what about you? Do you do it?"

"In my case, it's more not telling the whole truth. Let's say your great-uncle Beauregard goes wandering off and is found three days later in less than optimal condition, and the police tell you there was evidence he was attacked and killed by local dogs. We are _not_ going to describe for you in detail what a corpse half-eaten by wild animals looks like. You don't need to know that. We hide that from you and talk about unspecified 'evidence' in an effort to protect you from unnecessary unpleasantness."

Gillian challenged him. "Do you ever out-and-out lie?"

Hugh regarded his wife and partner calmly. "Yes," he said. "I worked on a case where the evidence pointed to either accidental death or suicide. It was stronger for suicide, but neither was certain. What was certain was that there was no perpetrator. We asked the coroner's jury for a ruling of accidental. It was easier for the family."

Gillian closed her eyes, then took a step to the right and embraced her husband. "You never told me," she said.

"It was before we met," he replied.

"That's all right, then."

"I can't tell you about every case. I can't tell you about any of them."

"In broad terms, no details."

"It depends on the case."

"I can live with that."

Robards took his leave, and the Latimers headed home. Robards had, in any case, to escort Mrs. Wainwright to her chicken farm. It turned out to be more of an experience than he'd bargained for.

"Vinny! Down! Down, boy!" Mrs. Wainwright grabbed the dog's collar, but she was ninety and the border collie, though small, was energetic. "Down, Vinny! Back away! Back away!'

"Is he always like this?" asked Robards from the lane. He was actually next to a tree that he figured he could climb should it become necessary. It had not yet become necessary, for which he was grateful. "I should have warned you, I'm not good with dogs."

"I don't understand. He's generally friendly with people I bring to the house. Down, Vinny!"

"Vinny's an unusual name for a dog," Robards commented, not straying from the tree.

"It's short for Vinegar Tom," said Mrs. Wainwright, struggling to keep the animal back.

Robards took a step forward, his wand in his hand. _"Daemonion colligat!"_ he cried.

Vinegar Tom settled quietly to the ground, all attempts at eviscerating Robards forgotten.

"How did you do that?" Mrs. Wainwright asked as Vinny thumped his tail happily. "More important, what did you do?"

"I cast a spell that's usually used to restrain a witch's familiar. Even though you are no witch, and border collies aren't familiars, Vinegar Tom is a familiar's name. Did you know that when you picked it?" Robards move toward the dog, his hand out, palm up, in greeting. Vinny scampered to his feet to sniff the proffered hand, his tail going like a metronome.

"Of course I knew," said Mrs. Wainwright. "I have a rather decent education. I thought of it as more of a nod to Constantina and to Vinny's heritage. You don't seem to have hurt him,"

"It's not meant to. Familiars can be very high-strung and nervous. The spell helps them exert control. Has he ever seen a wizard before?"

"He's seen Russ, and he's seen that Potter lad, Harry. He didn't act like this with them."

"Both of them have a high percentage of muggle blood." Robards had progressed to scratching Vinny's ears. "What did you mean by his heritage."

Mrs. Wainwright looked around. Her home was on the very edge of the magic zone, and though there were trees along the lane they'd just come down, beyond was empty moor. "There used to be more sheep raised here, and the village had a pack of dogs that were as sharp as whips. Famous around here they were, and highly prized. It was strange… as the number of sheep dwindled, so did the number of dogs. Litters were smaller, pups got sick… Vinny's the last. I've tried to breed him, but he doesn't take to outside dogs, nor they to him. He'd rather fight."

They started toward the fence and the chicken run. "He doesn't look old," Robards observed. "You may find the right mate yet." They began discussing the chickens, and Robards took out his notebook and pencil to jot down more observations, querying Mrs. Wainwright about their size, eating habits, frequency of laying, evidence of intelligence, breeding habits, and even watching as she fried a egg for him, noting the color and consistency of the yolk and white. "Do you sell eggs or chickens outside the village?"

"No. They seem to produce just enough for the local people. I never really wanted to expand."

After taking his leave of Mrs. Wainwright, Robards went back to the center of the village, for Allsop and Logan were on the other side. He paused to watch the comings and goings of the jobberknolls, and contrived to meet the curate as he was locking the chapel door and preparing to drive out.

"It must be pleasant to work in a peaceful little community like this," Robards commented. "Though I must admit I had a bit of difficulty finding it. Something about that turn…"

"Funny you should mention that," chuckled Davidson. "I had trouble my first time, too. Had to get my predecessor to come with me and show me where the road turned off. Really, it's as plain as day, but for some reason I couldn't see it."

"Your predecessor? Was he from Weetsmoor?" Robards tried not to sound too eager for the answer.

"No. A team curate like me. Lived in Manchester, and only came up for services. Well, I must be off. Feel free to drop in for services any time you're here, and if you ever want to talk about the agnostic thing, let me know."

"I will," said Robards as they shook hands.

Allsop's barn was of particular interest since it was Robards's first close-up view of a porlock. The horses were outside frolicking in the paddock, no porlock in evidence. Allsop brought out a couple of chairs that he placed a comfortable distance away, then set the tea and crumpets by the barn door.

In less than a minute, Robards heard the rat-a-tat of the porlock's hooves as it came to its private little feast. To Robards's surprise, it did not seize the food and take it into the barn, but rather squatted down outside the barn door and watched the two men as it ate. When it had finished, it picked crumbs from its fur with stubby little fingers and nibbled them, then it trotted to the side of the barn where a stand of grass grew tall and green next to an old-fashioned pump. The porlock plucked several fistfuls of the grass and, munching on the blades, returned to the dimness of the barn.

"That's amazing," Robards said to Allsop in a voice barely above a whisper. "They're supposed to be so shy, but this one seems quite relaxed and confident. How close have you gotten to it?"

"It lets me touch it sometimes. Mostly when I hold out food it wants to take, but it's still touching."

Before he left, Robards went into the barn to check the stalls and examine the little nest in a pile of hay that was the porlock's sleeping place.

The next stop was Logan's orchard and the bowtruckles. The fruit was getting ripe and ready to pick, and as Logan led him through the trees and pointed out how regularly and evenly spaced they had been planted, Robards reached up to pick an apple. Nothing happened. Puzzled, Robards then grasped a small branch as if to break it from the larger bough.

The reaction was instantaneous as long, woody, mantis-like creatures scurried from the upper branches to attack him. He released the branch at once and moved away. The bowtruckles retreated. "They understand," Robards explained to Logan, "that picking an apple doesn't hurt the tree. Most bowtruckles aren't that smart."

It had been a leisurely afternoon and was approaching tea time. Robards made his way back to the village center, where he bought a bottle of soda at Ridley's store, though he did not ask about the bundimuns. Then, whistling softly, he walked along the lane towards Snape's cottage until he reached a spot where he could be reasonably certain he was not being watched and disapparated.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Monday, September 20, 1999_

Harry arrived at work early the next morning, for the first full hearing before the Wizengamot was scheduled for eight-thirty. He checked his inbox, processed the most urgent memos, parceled out others to his coworkers, and had things in fairly good shape by eight-fifteen when he left to meet Robards outside the council chamber. The two arrived at the same time, Robards in formal judicial robes as befitted legal counsel. He was accompanied by Paul Hooper.

"Should I have put on formal robes?" Harry asked, worried now that his more casual attire might seem disrespectful.

"Good heavens, no," Robards replied. "I'm dressed like this because I'm the head of a department presenting a formal petition from another department, but we don't want things too stiff. As it is, we'll have to keep reminding them this isn't a criminal trial. Look at Hooper. He's not in formal robes."

"Another department?" Harry latched on to the one point that was a surprise. "Aren't you the one petitioning?"

Robards shook his head. "Not really my business," he explained. "Hooper here got Diggory to help him, and Magical Creatures is presenting the petition to preserve a sanctuary for the wildlife we're discovering. Their stand is that any alteration in the status quo could harm the wildlife, and legal sanctuary is necessary to preserve the status quo. I'm officially handling it because of the Laws of Secrecy and Underage Magic."

"Underage magic?" said Harry. "Who's performing underage magic?"

"Your mother and grandmother. Any problems about that need to be nipped in the bud. Ah! There you are! I hope Professor McGonagall isn't too put out."

This last was addressed to the ghost of Professor Snape, who had appeared behind Harry at that moment in the conversation. The ghost grimaced. "She's livid. I think the administrative stress of trying to find teachers to cover my classes is too much for her. Have you ever heard of the Peter Principle? I am beginning to suspect that Professor McGonagall has been promoted past her level of competence."

"You might want to tone that down," cautioned Robards.

"You're assuming I'm on your side," the ghost riposted.

Further exchange was prevented by the arrival of the members of the Wizengamot, followed by Minster for Magic Shacklebolt. "This had better not be a waste of time," Shacklebolt snapped at Robards as he strode past to take his place at the presiding podium. Robards was discreet enough to know that no response was expected, and therefore gave none.

As soon as everyone was in his place, before Robards could even get his papers out of the attaché case he was carrying, the Scribe of the Council stepped forward. "The Wizengamot has convened to consider the petition of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to declare the muggle village of Weetsmoor in Lancashire a Reasonable Sanctuary for the Preservation of a Magical – Non-Magical Status Quo within the terms of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy, such sanctuary being necessary to protect a magical environment and creatures within it whose existence might otherwise be endangered. The Wizengamot has consulted with legal experts, and the case falls within their jurisdiction. Will counsel for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures step forward." The Scribe himself stepped back and sat down at his desk, ready to record the proceedings.

"With the Council's permission," said Robards, stepping forward as requested, "the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is presenting the case, since certain aspects of wizarding law are involved. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is represented by Mr. Paul Hooper, who helped draft the petition."

"Ahem," coughed a plump, rather scruffy wizard with an immense black mustache whom Harry remember from his own hearing in August 1995. "There are two others with you. What are they doing here?"

"Thank you, Mr. Leach," said Robards calmly. "I appreciate the opportunity to introduce them." (Leach scowled. He had clearly not intended his question to be an 'opportunity.') "This young man is Mr. Potter, a clerk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who is acting as my assistant today." (Several of the wizards and witches smiled and nodded to Harry.) "This other gentleman is the not departed spirit of the late Professor Severus Snape. He is here as an expert witness since wizarding members of his family have lived in the village in question for many generations covering a span of several hundred years. Part of the issue in question is status quo, and we thought it might help if the Council had information as to how long that status quo has been in existence."

Harry was already getting a feel for this. He looked around the chamber, but did not see the chair with the serpent-like chains. No accused, no case to be tried or sentence to be passed. Robards was presenting information to help the Wizengamot reach a decision. _Watch yourself, Harry,_ he thought. _We're not adversaries here. Keep it civil._

"Is that where you plan to begin, Gawain?" asked a strikingly elegant witch of about sixty. She lifted a pair of pince-nez from her thin, straight nose and regarded him with stunning violet eyes.

"I had intended to, Madam Scrimgeour," said Robards respectfully.

"Then if no one objects, I suggest you do so."

"Yes," said Robards. "If I may begin, will everyone please look at Exhibit 1 in the folder in front of you."

It was then that Harry noticed that on the narrow desk in front of each member of the Wizengamot was a thin brown folder. As the witches and wizards opened their folders, Robards began to explain the nature of the evidence.

"Exhibit 1 is a portion of a map published by the Ordnance Survey, which is an executive agency of the United Kingdom charged with, among other things, the making of maps. This particular map is of the Pendle district of Lancashire, where the village of Weetsmoor is located. Several major towns in the district have been indicated in red to help in case we need to point out a specific one. You will note that the map is so highly detailed that in some places it indicates individual farms. Now if you will locate the towns of Barnoldswick and Colne, slightly to the east of a line drawn between them, you will find Foulridge."

There was a little difficulty for various members of the Council, since Robards had learned from Snape to say 'Barlick' and 'Foalridge,' forcing him to spell the names of the towns, but eventually they all had Foulridge.

"Now go west and find the Gisburn Old Road, and near its western end you will see a green X that we have drawn there. According to your map, this is open moor and ancient, uncultivated farm land." Robards paused for dramatic effect. "It is also, ladies and gentlemen, the location of the village of Weetsmoor."

"Wait! Wait!" cried an elderly wizard with a wart on the tip of his nose. "Are you trying to tell us this village is unplottable?"

"It would appear so," Robards confirmed. "Accurate muggle maps are fairly recent in historical terms, but the Ordnance Survey was established in 1747, and in all the maps they have ever made of the region, Weetsmoor is never indicated. This is despite the fact that the present village is constructed of homes and shops none of which was constructed later than the seventeenth century, and portions of some of which may go back to the twelfth century. In all that time, it has never been located on a map."

"My goodness," breathed a blonde witch with a pug nose. "We're not talking about a few years, are we? This is decades."

"Centuries, my dear," Madam Scrimgeour corrected her gently.

"The curious thing," continued Robards, "is that this is not Ottery St. Catchpole or Godric's Hollow. This is not a community where a large wizarding population and a large muggle population rub shoulders. This is a muggle community. One that has, insofar as we can determine, only contained one wizarding family in all its history. That family is the Rossendale family. At a later time during these proceedings, I intend to expand on the history of that family. Right now, however, we are more concerned with the muggles.

"The muggles of Weetsmoor have always known that the Rossendale family were witches. It is no recent discovery, no hidden, arcane secret suddenly come to light. I should like Professor Snape at this point to answer one or two questions designed to illustrate this point. Professor?"

The ghost floated up and into the center of the chamber. "What do you need from me?" he asked.

"Did any member of your family live in Weetsmoor during your lifetime?"

"Yes. My grandmother. I visited her when I was young and learned potion making from her."

"Did you ever come into contact with the muggles of the village?"

"From time to time. They would come for medicines and various brews. It was all pretty basic chemistry except, of course, for the magical component."

"Did they know she was magical?"

The ghost smiled. "There was one time a young man fell from a roof. He'd ruptured his spleen and was dying. They came to her because they knew she could help. She was a healer; she chanted him well, and it was what they had expected her to do. I know because I was there that day and watched it. Most muggles, if they ask for medical help, they don't expect the 'doctor' to sing. They don't see singing as healing. But when she started a healing chant, they knew it would work. They knew the magic was there. And when he recovered, they knew she'd done it. They were expecting a magical solution to a medical emergency. They knew she was a witch."

"Is any member of your family currently living in Weetsmoor?"

The ghost's eyes widened. He hadn't been expecting this question, and it was obvious to Harry, and presumably to the members of the Wizengamot, that he had no answer prepared.

"Eh… yes. He's registered somewhere in the Ministry because he inherited the reward I… eh… my… personality… eh…"

Robards stopped him. "The Council will remember that in the spring of this year there was a hearing to determine the legal status of the collective thoughts, personality, and cloned body of Severus Snape. That collection of personal components was ruled not to be a legal person and was placed as a ward of the Ministry, but managed to commit suicide. It had been granted a reward for services rendered to the wizarding world, and that reward was inherited by…"

The ghost had recovered. "He's registered with the Division of Budget and Personnel as my nephew, Richard Snape. He's living in the cottage where my grandmother used to live. It's not in the center, but it's part of the village."

"How do the villagers treat him?"

The ghost shrugged. "They expect him to be the local wizard."

"Is he?" Robards asked.

The ghost thought about this for a moment as Harry employed his fingers in a muggle ritual to ensure good luck. "I don't know all the details," the ghost finally said, "but I understand he's been called in for veterinary work, to escort an elderly woman to a muggle hospital, and he's trying to peddle cleaning products to earn spending money."

"Any major magical moments?"

"None that I'm privy to. We're not close. I don't expect him to confide in me."

"But the locals expect him to be magical. Why is that?"

"I suppose it's because he looks like me when I was his age."

Robards turned and shuffled through his papers. "Excuse me, Professor, but would you remind me who gave you your first lessons in magical history, magical flora and fauna, and the magical arts in general."

Now completely relaxed, the ghost replied, "My great-grandfather, Wensley Snape."

"Did he attend Hogwarts? Did anyone on any side of your family attend Hogwarts?"

"That depends on how far back you want to go. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington…" Members of the Wizengamot nodded sagely at the mention of the name. "…assures me that I had a fifteenth century ancestor who did, but due to a dynastic change in the English government, they were forced to relocate and assume a low profile. Since then, the only member of the family to go to Hogwarts was my mother. And me, of course."

"Excuse me," broke in the mustached Mr. Leach. "I fail to see how this is pertinent to the question at hand."

"I'm deeply sorry, sir," Robards apologized. "I'm afraid I'm too used to being a trial lawyer. I'm trying to show that Professor Snape is an example of the situation of many wizards in rural areas. They come from extended families that are separate from the mainstream wizarding world that we know, yet carry within them the trait of magic. Muggles whose families have lived in these same areas recognize those traits and expect these people to be magical."

Mr. Leach wasn't buying it. "How come the Ministry hasn't picked them up? Wouldn't we know they were there?"

Robards smiled. "You have an exalted opinion of the reach of my department," he said. "I am sorry to disillusion you, but the Ministry can only put the Trace on children of families we know. We can only detect broad spectra of magical activity, not pinpoint its specific source. Professor Snape's mother went to Hogwarts. The Ministry was therefore able to track her and Trace her offspring. No other member of Professor Snape's family other than himself and his mother were at Hogwarts, and so we have no way of tracking their actions. One of my clerks did notice a renewal of low-range magical activity in Weetsmoor after the arrival of Professor Snape's nephew, but when she investigated, the evidence was inconclusive."

"Are you saying this supposedly muggle nephew may be magical?" asked Madam Scrimgeour.

"I'm saying we don't know," said Robards, "and that leads me to my next point. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was intended to protect witches and wizards from notice and recognition that would lead to a situation where they would be in immediate physical danger of losing their lives. We have long passed that period and wizards, in Britain at least, have reasonable assurance of the protection of muggle law against people who would try to harm them. Thus it stands to reason that the simple _knowledge_ that there _may be_ wizards in the world does not in and of itself constitute a threat to any witch or wizard.

"Counsel for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures wishes to call muggles and suspected wizards of the community of Weetsmoor to testify to their experience of the magical nature of the place. We do not, however, wish these witnesses to lose their experience of their environment through the misplaced desire of the Council to overprotect the wizarding world by the unnecessary alteration of the memories of the witnesses..."

"Excuse me!" cried Mr. Leach. "Objection to the words 'misplaced,' 'overprotect,' and 'unnecessary…"

"With the Council's permission!" Robards cried above the babble that ensued from Leach's remark, "we only want the Council to guarantee that the memories of these witnesses will not be tampered with for light and transient reasons! We know they know about wizards – that's nothing new. Not only is there no reason to punish them for that knowledge, rather wiping that knowledge will lead to a greater suspicion that wizards manipulate the environment for their own purposes…"

"Listen to him!" shrieked Leach. "We manipulate the environment… We manipulate the law…"

Robards was totally silent at this point, as other wizards struggled to calm the rabid Leach, who fulminated against the dangers of muggles and a complacent Ministry at the same time. After he was led from the chamber, Robards continued…

"Every witness that I plan to call in connection with this petition is a person who has known from childhood that the wizarding world exists. There is no new danger in this hearing. I ask only that no action be taken against their memories without the careful consideration of the entire Council with the testimony of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

With Leach out of the way, the motion was passed unanimously, and Robards was free to construct the rest of his case.

xxxxxxxxxx


	18. Chapter 18 – A Reasonable Sanctuary 4

**STORY NUMBER FOUR: A Reasonable Sanctuary 4**

_Tuesday, September 21, 1999_

The hearing proper was in full swing the next day. The first witness was once again the ghost of Professor Severus Snape.

"First, Professor," said Robards gently after the ghost had taken the witness stand, "I should like to establish exactly how you are connected to everyone else in this case. Professor Snape was killed in 1998 by the wizard who called himself Lord Voldemort. You bear upon your person the marks of the serpent that attacked him. Was this the moment at which you became a ghost?"

The ghost grimaced. "I really don't know. I know that something held me back and prevented me from going on. I know that at some point I was locked within a coffin with a dead body. I really have no timeline, though. There are gaps."

"Is it possible that these 'gaps' may have lasted from May 1998 to April 1999?"

"I have no idea," the ghost said. "There was a moment when I experienced my own death; there was a moment when I realized I was trapped as the permanent companion of a corpse; there was a moment when I was released. I cannot tell you the time span between these different events. People have told me of the days before I was released, but I cannot personally fit it into a timeline. It doesn't work that way."

"So you don't, of personal experience, know at what exact moment you became a ghost?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me about your nephew, Richard Snape."

The ghost scowled. "I scarcely know anything about him. He's about eighteen or nineteen now, so he should have been born in 1980, at a time when I was working for… Lord Voldemort… when I would hardly have been likely to have taken any notice of a muggle or squib nephew. I still don't know why you consider him important."

"He is currently living in your grandmother's cottage in Weetsmoor."

"Oh, right!" chuckled the ghost of Snape. 'He's brought in all sorts of muggle experts to evaluate the property, hasn't he? They've rebuilt the cottage and added plumbing and wiring. Why, may I ask you, would I be interested in him?"

"Because he's the closest thing you have to a relative still in existence."

"No," said Snape, "he's only one step away from being a stranger, since I have actually met him. My parents never talked about my family. I don't recall meeting him or learning anything about him while I was growing up."

There was a little murmur at this until Robards asked, "Did you know that there even _was_ a person named Richard Snape?"

"Oh, yes, I knew there was someone named Richard Snape. I tended to forget it most of the time, though."

"Have you met any of the other residents of the village?"

"Yes," said the ghost calmly. "At young Snape's housewarming after the reconstruction was finished. He invited me."

At this, a subdued pandemonium broke out in the chamber, with members of the Wizengamot crying that the ghost had broken wizarding law while others demanded explanations. Robards merely waited quietly until Shacklebolt insisted on, and got, order. Then…

"Were you aware of violating wizarding law by attending this… housewarming?"

The ghost shook his head. "I wasn't violating wizarding law because I'm no longer a wizard. I'm a ghost, and I can't perform magic. I can't even hold a wand. If you check the Statute of Secrecy and wade through the list of creatures muggles mustn't be allowed to know about, ghosts aren't on it. And need I remind the Council that ghosts figure prominently in muggle folklore, quite separate from magic and witches. Knowledge that there is a ghost does not lead to knowledge of the wizarding world. I am the ghost of Mrs. Prince's grandson, and it was logical that I should visit her old home. What was surprising was the ease with which everyone accepted the idea."

"Nobody was frightened?"

"Not a one. They treated me like part of the community."

"Are there other ghosts in Weetsmoor?

"I have no idea. You shall have to ask one of the locals."

"What do you know about the history of your family? You've already told us of your great-grandfather. What of the Prince side of the family?"

"Not very much," the ghost admitted. "My grandmother Snape gave me the most information, and I have since learned more from Sir Nicholas, as I have told you. From the late fifteenth to the mid twentieth century, they lived in the West Riding of Yorkshire, now part of Lancashire, isolated from most of the wizarding world. I know next to nothing of the Rossendales"

"If it please the Council," Robards announced, "we do have some information on the Rossendales which we will present later."

"You might have told it to me," the ghost complained. "It's my family."

"You're welcome to stay and listen," Robards informed him.

Harry did not at first recognize the next person to walk into the room. This is probably because Russ's hair was cut much shorter and neatly combed, and he was wearing a dark muggle suit with a blue necktie That and the fact he was blindfolded.

Robards walked over to him and laid a hand on his arm. "Do you recognize my voice?"

Russ turned his head toward the sound. "You've been talking to me about all the unusual phenomena around my house and the village. Your name is Robards."

"That's right. What is your name?"

"Richard Snape."

"Do you know where you are now?"

"I'm supposed to be answering questions for some kind of council. About my home and the village, and the odd things that happen there."

"Were you asked to make a promise?"

"Yes. That I would never tell anyone what I saw or heard here."

Robards turned to the Wizengamot. "The next decision rests with you. Do we continue like this, or may I remove the blindfold?"

The blonde witch with the pug nose, who Harry had learned was named Mehitable Washburn, said, "Oh do take it off! I want to see if he really looks like Professor Snape."

Robards obliged, and the general consensus was that the young man looked very much like Professor Snape indeed. Except around the eyes and mouth. All agreed that the witness had much gentler eyes and that there was more humor around the mouth…

"Tell me," Robards continued. "Have you known for a long time that you were related to Professor Severus Snape?"

Russ shook his head. "I'm afraid I knew nothing about him before this year. When I was first told that I was going to get a substantial reward for actions performed by Severus Snape, I was astounded. It was the last thing I expected."

"Have you known for a long time that you were related to Constantina Rossendale, the woman in whose house you now live?"

Again Russ shook his head. "Until this year, I'd never heard of her."

Harry was beginning to get uncomfortable. He understood why it was important that Russ not take the oath to tell the truth, but he couldn't accept out-and-out lying. It wasn't right…

"And until this year," Robards went on, "had you ever visited the village of Weetsmoor or even known of its existence?"

"No," Russ replied. "Not before this year."

And then it hit Harry like a bolt of lightning. They weren't lying! Before this year, the person of Russ Snape hadn't existed. He'd been a collection of random memories in a transfigured flask and a lock of hair wrapped in tissue and preserved in an envelope. For anything Robards asked, Russ could honestly reply, _"Not before this year.'_

"How did you acquire Constantina Rossendale's cottage?"

"I worked through a land agent. Your people told me Severus Snape was my uncle. There were papers about the cottage. I was put into contact with the agents who were selling the place, and when I wanted to view it, I took the train to Colne where they met me and drove me there."

"So you didn't have to find Weetsmoor on your own?"

Russ smiled; it was an attractive smile, not at all like the ghost's. "When they want to sell you something, they're very nice to you."

_And that,_ Harry thought, _is exactly how you contrive to not answer a question._

Robards, however, was nowhere near finished. "What did the property look like when you bought it?"

"I understood that someone had died in a fire about twenty years previously. Later owners, for some reason, had never been successful in rebuilding the place, but no one knew why. Most of the cottage was still a burned out shell, though some work had been done. Enough so you could live there, but not really comfortably. The great part was that it belonged to the family, and because of the damage, it was cheap."

"And beyond the cottage itself?"

Russ smiled again. "It was amazing. The land around the cottage is enormous. It's this immense yard, and it had clearly once been an extraordinary garden. And that garden was still there! It's still there now! Vegetables, herbs, fruit trees… They're all there, and they're healthy and thriving. All I had to do was clear out some of the overgrowth. They swore to me that no one had worked on it for twenty years, but once the weeds were gone, the garden was still there."

"Tell me," said Robards. "Have you heard rumors about something strange at the cottage?"

"The magic? Yeah, everybody knows about it. I thought they were daft at first, but so many strange things have been happening that now I'm not sure.

"What sorts of strange things?" Robards asked.

"Well, there's this owl. I never saw an owl like this before I moved to the cottage. He's very friendly, and he wears a little pouch on his leg." Russ looked rather sheepish. "He likes to carry notes."

"Really!" exclaimed Madam Scrimgeour, peering at the young man through her pince-nez. "To whom has he carried notes?"

"To our local grocer. He's also carried messages to the constable."

"And were either of these worthies surprised to receive a message by owl?"

Russ shook his head. "Not at all. They took it quite in stride."

"Could you give us another example?"

"There's a nest of birds in the chapel belfry. They're very quiet; I've never heard them sing. But when one got stuck in the tar – they'd just re-tarred the roof and it was sticky, you see – it made all these horrible noises as it died. Songs, traffic, people yelling, like it had been recording every sound it heard in the village."

"Mr. Snape," asked Madam Scrimgeour, "did you as a child ever make unusual things 'happen?' Things you couldn't explain?"

"No, ma'am," said Russ quietly.

"Were you born to parents either one of whom could make things 'happen' for no apparent reason?"

"No, ma'am. Before this year, I was unacquainted with the world of magic."

"Then how did you cure a sick horse by singing to it?"

"I don't know that I did. The vet may have made an error in diagnosis. All I know is that Mr. Allsop wanted me to do something and, since I didn't know what to do, I sang the poor animal a lullaby of sorts."

"What was the lullaby?"

"Not a real song. Just things that came into my head."

Robards asked the last question. "Mr. Snape, are you eating local food and drinking local water?"

"Why, yes. I have a well and use that water for most everything, and I'm eating the fruit and vegetables from the garden. That, plus I buy Mrs. Wainwright's eggs, and got some pork liver from Mr. Hackett. Most of the rest is from outside."

The next witness was Hugh Latimer, also neatly dressed in a suit, his gray eyes, soft brown hair, and impish smile a contrast to the more somber Russ.

"Constable Latimer," Robards asked after the witness had been identified to the Council, "how long have you known about magic in Weetsmoor?"

"All my life," Hugh replied. "Everyone knows about it."

"What do they say about Constantina Prince, née Rossendale."

"She was the local witch. Everyone used to go to her, including my parents, for medicines and charms. She could heal people, too, even from injuries that could have been fatal."

"What do they say about Richard Snape?"

Hugh smiled. "It shocked all the older residents when they first saw him because he looks exactly like Mrs. Prince's grandson did. He, the grandson, I mean, used to visit her from time to time, and they all knew about him. After she died, he never returned, so they remember him as a teenager."

"Did they think he was magical?"

"Of course. They say he helped her with her healing."

"So there is some logic behind their seeking Richard Snape out for help."

"It seemed perfectly natural to me."

Again Mrs. Scrimgeour leaned forward, adjusting the lenses perched on her nose. "Doesn't it trouble anyone that the people of the village attacked and killed Constantina Prince?"

Hugh's face grew grave. "It bothers a lot of people, especially the ones involved in the incident. Richard Snape, however, well he never knew the old lady, and we've since been informed by…" Hugh glanced quickly, as if involuntarily, at the ghost, "…by Mr.… Professor?… Snape that the villagers were placed under some kind of curse."

The ghost rose, impressively formal. "A full account is in the transcripts of my hearing from December 1981. There was no reason to hide the truth from people who were already aware of the wizarding world, and who could be eased by the knowledge."

Mr. Leach – once again permitted in the chamber provided he behave himself – spoke up, his mustache quivering violently. "That was a breach of the Statute of Secrecy!" he cried. "This man should be arrested and punished!"

The ghost allowed his hand to pass unhindered through the back of a chair. "I'd like to know how you plan to do that," he said quietly.

Leach was not to be put off. "Why hasn't any other ghost been charged with this crime? Why are you different? Why do you break the rules?"

The ghost twisted his mouth into something not quite passing as a smile. "Other ghosts never appear before this Council. You only know about me because I told you. What might they have done that they haven't told you about?"

The old wizard with the warty nose, Quintus Prendergast, spoke up. "Do you mean that ghosts routinely break our laws?"

"There," said the ghost of Professor Snape. "You have hit the proverbial nail. They are your laws. They are not, however, our laws. The equation changes when you reach the other side of the veil. Let me put your mind at rest, however. Most ghosts are haunts. Unless summoned or invited, they do not stray from their territory, and the chance of their spreading information is small."

"But you are not a haunt," said Madam Scrimgeour.

"No," the translucent Snape admitted. "I have no explanation for it, but I seem not to be tied to a particular place."

After that, Robards continued his questioning of Hugh Latimer.

"You know," Hugh admitted, his manner more that of a person conversing with friends than a witness testifying before a Council, "I never really thought about it before, but nobody simply finds the village. Walking tourists get a letter or an email from the inn about their reservations that gives them directions. Others have to be shown the way by an acquaintance who's part of the community."

"An email," Robards explained to the Wizengamot, "is an electronic form of communication involving muggle technology." He turned back to Hugh. "Has any of these 'walking tourists' ever revealed to the general public that there are odd animals and plants in the area?" he asked.

Hugh shook his head. "To the best of my knowledge, we have never been mentioned in any publication of any ornithological, botanical, herbal, geological, or any other kind of amateur scientific journal at all. No one talks about us."

"Why do outsiders come to Weetsmoor at all?"

"Word of mouth. It's a godsend to the economy of the village. Without them, the local businesses would have to close. We live within a delicate balance. We stay mostly to ourselves, but we get enough outsiders to keep us going. Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," said Robards. "Personally, I would think there was something very right with that."

There were a few more items to discuss, and then both Hugh and Russ were again blindfolded and escorted out. During the ensuing recess, Madam Scrimgeour sought out Robards.

"So fascinating," she said, "how that young man is the image of the cloned Snape we ruled on earlier this year."

"Isn't it?" Robards replied. "It never ceases to amaze me. But blood will tell."

"Do you know what house I was in, Gawain? It was long before your time."

"No, Madam. I did not check your file before this case started."

Madam Scrimgeour smiled a thoroughly patrician smile. "I was in Slytherin. I even knew Tom Riddle, though only as a lowly first year when he was seventh."

"It was an age of giants," said Robards, committing himself to nothing.

"It was." She sighed in reminiscence of her youth. "I have kept up with the houses and their members since. I was keen on inter-school rivalry, not just in Quidditch, but the lesser sports and games as well. Did you know Hogwarts once competed in Gobstones?"

"No," Robards admitted. "I didn't."

"Excellent team in the late forties and early fifties, especially under a Hufflepuff. Eileen Prince I think her name was. She married a muggle. Not a muggle-born, a muggle."

"Do tell," said Robards.

Madam Scrimgeour cleared her throat delicately. "Regarding that vote this spring. Did you happen to check what mine was?"

Robards smiled. "You voted to consider the clone a viable human being."

"And Gawain, you have no idea how pleased I am today with my perspicacity and empathy. That is a very sympathetic young man you brought before us today."

"Which of the three, Madam, are you referring to?"

Madam Scrimgeour tapped him playfully on the shoulder with her pince-nez. "You are a sly dog, Gawain Robards, and I don't wish to pop any of your bubbles. Have you called your last witness?"

"Are you convinced?" Robards asked.

"Not yet. I can't put my finger on it, but something more has to be put into the balance."

"Yes, ma'am," said Robards, grateful for the heads-up.

It was now mid-morning as the members of the Wizengamot returned to their places in the chamber. Robards rose to address the Council, not calling any witness. "I have twice," he reminded the gathered witches and wizards, "promised to tell you the story of the Rossendale family. The history is not yet – and may never be – complete, but we have garnered enough of it to make a cohesive narrative. I wish to thank at this time two young witches who have proven of invaluable service, although they are not present today. Both Miss Hermione Granger and Miss Ginevra Weasley have done hours of research for my department, and what I am about to tell you is primarily what they discovered.

"From earliest times, apparently from the time of William the Conqueror and before even the founding of the county of Lancashire, the Honor of Clitheroe in Lancashire contained the Hundred of Blackburnshire, which in turn had four royal hunting preserves: the forests of Accrington, Pendle, Trawden and Rossendale. It is only the last of the four which concerns us, especially that part which is still called Rossendale valley, along the banks of the River Irwell."

At this point Robards paused to pass around sheets of paper that had a map of the area in question on them. Several of the members of the Council examined the papers carefully, Quintus Prendergast (the wizard with the warty nose) even trying to rub the ink off.

"I say, Gawain," he called down to the chamber floor, "I say, how did you manage this drafting job? Takes a mighty fine quill to draw a line this thin. And so many of them!"

"I can't take credit for it," Robards admitted. "Miss Granger provided them, using something called a photocopy machine. It takes about a minute to make a hundred copies."

"Can we get one for Magical Creatures?" Hooper asked plaintively, studying the quality of the reproduction. "It would save us a lot of time."

"And us," Robards concurred, "but it needs electricity, and things like paper and toner, and regular maintenance. I understand, however, that you can go into an ordinary muggle store, pay a token price, and copy anything you want on their machine."

"You're joking!" Hooper cried. "I've got to find one of those stores. We need three hundred copies for every 'Dangerous Beast Alert' we send out worldwide, and right now it takes a day and a half to do them."

"That's silly!" admonished Mr. Leach. "All you need is a duplicating spell."

"Sure," said Hooper, "assuming that you throw them out as soon as you get them. But most agencies archive them, and for that you need something more permanent… real paper and real ink."

"Excuse me," Robards murmured quietly, "may I continue?"

"Oh, right," said Hooper. "By all means. Go ahead."

"If you will look carefully at your maps," Robards said, causing every witch and wizard in the room to study the papers intently, "you will find near the source of the Irwell a village called Bacup. It's a town now, but it's been there forever… long before the area was designated a royal forest. It's major economy for centuries was sheep and wool.

"In the summer of 1097, there arrived in the village of Bacup a witch with a young son – a boy some thirteen or fourteen years old – apparently from in or near Wales. Both she and her son appeared exhausted, and the son was ill. She asked for shelter for the night, which the village was legally bound to give. They wished for her to move on the next day, however, since if they allowed her to stay they would become financially responsible for her, permanently."

"Gawain," Madam Scrimgeour asked, "was this a religious obligation or a legal one."

"Legal," Robards replied. "Homeless persons, widows and orphans of the place, illegitimate children whose fathers were unknown… all were the responsibility of the community. The wandering homeless became part of the community as soon as the community allowed them to reside longer than the law required. Getting rid of vagrants was a priority in England for many hundreds of years."

"What drove this woman to Bacup?" Prendergast asked.

"So far as we can tell, it was because of her son." Robards shuffled through his papers as thought trying to recall a point. It was a ruse, a pause for dramatic effect, but only Harry realized this.

"The king of England in 1097 was William II, known as William Rufus. Both he and his court were notorious at the time for non-heterosexual activities. Apparently the son had been targeted by one of William's 'friends,' and the mother was attempting to get the boy out of harm's way…"

(At this point, Mehitable Washburn's sister Tabitha tried to explain to her what Robards was talking about, causing poor Mehitable to blush crimson.)

"Desperate for a place to stay, the woman confessed to the villagers that she was one of the 'cunning folk'…"

"I know about that," interrupted a wizard in the upper rows. "They covered it in NEWT level History of Magic. Lots of muggles in England believed there were 'white witches,' people who helped with their magic instead of hurting."

"Indeed," Robards acknowledged. "and because of the proofs she was able to provide, they accepted her as a wise woman and allowed her to stay. What she then did was more profound. She cast a powerful spell on herself and her own family so that from that time they would have only girl children, so that never again would a young son become prey to a pederast."

"So explain to me, Gawain," Madam Scrimgeour said with a smirk, "how a daughter of this family gave birth to Severus Snape."

"In good time, Madam," Robards smiled back at her. "In good time."

"How long was this family in… what's it called? Bacup?" Prendergast was accumulating a considerable pile of notes scribbled on scraps of parchment.

"Over five hundred," Robards told the council, "and always there was one older witch and one younger witch, for each new generation in the family, reaching the proper age, would leave the village for a time and return with a baby daughter – thus there was never a male, a wizard, in the family. The conditions of the spell would not permit it."

"So!" cried Leach. "They were all bas…"

"Yes," Robards confirmed quickly. "They were illegitimate."

Minister Shacklebolt broke his long silence. "Did anything of note happen during these five hundred years, or can we skip forward to…?"

"No," interrupted Madam Scrimgeour, "I still have some questions. Was it always just mother – daughter? If the mother lived to be old, the daughter could pass childbearing age."

"An excellent point." Robards bowed slightly to his interrogator. "On several occasions there were three generations of wise women in the village, and once – from 1308 to 1312 – four. Great-grandmother and great-granddaughter together in the same house."

"That makes sense. Next, was there ever any anti-witch hysteria in the area? No threats to the family?"

"None that we know of. As has been mentioned, many rural areas of England believed that the 'cunning folk' could work magic quite separate from the church's idea of service to the devil…"

"And a very intelligent attitude it was!" interjected the wizard in the upper tier.

"I agree." Robards paused, again to let the effect sink in, then continued. "And remember, for most of this time, you could not charge a person with merely _being_ a witch. If you wanted to get rid of a witch, you had to charge her with committing a crime using witchcraft. If the witch was well-known and respected in the community, you would have to be very sure of your facts before you brought charges."

"Well," commented Mehitable Washburn, "it's no wonder so many of our old families come from the countryside. City people can be so crazy."

Shacklebolt, having seized a bone, was not about to let it go. "But it changed, didn't it? Can we skip to that?"

"Yes, it did," Robards admitted. "In 1603. That was the year that Queen Elizabeth I died and her cousin, James VI of Scotland, became king of England as James I. James believed passionately, almost obsessively, that all witches were servants of the devil. He even wrote a book about it called _Daemonologie._ Suddenly it was very patriotic to find and root out witches. That book was not, however," he added quickly, "what caused the wise woman of Bacup to leave her village. What caused that was a civil war.

"Now I am not going to go into all the causes of that civil war. It was between the supporters of King Charles, James's son, and the supporters of Parliament. What is important is that Parliament had its biggest support in the south, while the north, which included Lancashire, was for the king. Rossendale forest was still a hunting preserve, and it was a meeting place for Tory troops. It was thus a precarious place for a known witch to be, and the current witch of Bacup headed north with her daughter to the Yorkshire border, where she found shelter in the village of Weetsmoor.

"Poor little Weetsmoor was in a difficult position. It was mostly non-conformist, which means that the people there did not follow the official religion of the Church of England. A new chapel had been built – which still stands – but the town was beginning to realize that, like the mighty merchant port of Liverpool, it was a Whig island in the Tory sea of Lancashire. Liverpool endured a siege of two and a half weeks before it fell to Prince Rupert. Weetsmoor would not have stood out for ten minutes.

"The fugitive witch understood this and, as proof of her good will, offered to make the town invisible to its enemies. The spell is an ancient one, so ancient that modern witchcraft has superseded and obscured it. Where the ancients used one spell, we now use two: the Fidelius Charm and the Unplottable Charm. The old charm used no single Secret Keeper, where the new one requires it. The modern spell dies with the Secret Keeper or the destruction of the ensecreted place. The old spell has lasted for three hundred fifty years."

"Does that mean," asked Quintus Prendergast, "that the town agreed – knowingly agreed – to this spell?"

"It does, though apparently that knowledge has not survived the passage of over three hundred years. The current residents, with a couple of exceptions, do not know of the existence of the spell. They have simply the quaint acceptance of the fact that the village is hard to find."

Madam Scrimgeour raised a hand. "And the exceptions are…?"

"Professor Snape's nephew Russ, Constable Latimer, and Mrs. Gillian Latimer, the constable's wife. The other residents are aware of the peculiarities, but accept them as normal. This is largely due to the fact that when they bring a newcomer to the village, they are not aware that they are divulging a Secret."

It was Leach's turn. "So why doesn't everybody in Britain know about this village?"

Robards smiled. "That's the ancient effect of what we today refer to as unplottability. Anyone given the secret is inhibited in passing it on. Telling one friend about the village is possible. Broadcasting the information to a thousand is not. Thus the impossibility of printing a map for general distribution."

Harry had made whispered inquiries of Hooper when he could do it unobtrusively, so when the wizard in the upper tier spoke up, Harry knew he was Sidney Urquhart. "Mr. Robards, what other secondary evidence do we have to support this history of yours?"

Robards bowed his head slightly in thought. After a few seconds, he said, "Go to the village. Every building there dates from the mid-seventeenth century or earlier. Their interiors are capable of remodeling, but not, apparently, the exteriors. Nor has any new construction been added until this year. Late this summer, Richard Snape reconstructed Constantina's cottage, which had been burned. Though I must point out that the new cottage retains a seventeenth-century appearance… with a few interesting modifications."

"What might those be?" Urquhart asked.

"I think it would be best for someone else to respond to that question… someone who has a more intimate experience with the place. If I could ask Mr. Harry Potter to come forward…?

"Me?" Harry exclaimed from his seat behind Robards's desk. "I'm not a witness!" He glanced toward Hooper for support, but that worthy turned his head away.

"That is quite true," Robards replied, "since this is not a trial and we are not discussing criminal activity. You are an expert advising the Council of your knowledge of an area of information on which they have to make a decision. I apologize for taking you by surprise like this, but I didn't know until this moment that your experience might be requested. Would you like a short recess to discuss this? I'm sure the Council wouldn't mind."

It struck Harry then that this was what Robards wanted – incontrovertible proof that the evidence had not been rigged. His own reaction had been immediate and unpremeditated, something the Wizengamot could not have failed to notice. No one would blame him if he asked for time to consult, yet going to questioning without coaching might leave a better impression. "No," Harry said firmly. "No, I don't need a recess." He rose and went forward.

"Mr. Potter," Robards began, "how did Weetsmoor come to the attention of your unit in July of this year?"

Harry suppressed a smile. Robards controlled the questions. All Harry had to do was answer them. "We were getting blips of low-range, minor spell activity in an area where there had been no magic for twenty years."

"Why did you travel to Weetsmoor?"

"I was instructed to do so by the head of Magical Law Enforcement – as I am sure you recall, sir." The two incidents were reversed in time, but Harry had not been asked to comment on that point. He suddenly felt very calm about the proceedings.

"Did you meet any of the locals?"

"Yes, a shopkeeper and Constable Latimer."

"Were they surprised to see you?"

"Not at all. They assumed I was visiting Ru… Richard," – Harry realized at that moment that his biggest problem was going to be avoiding the name Russ – "and, as I learned later, they assumed I was a wizard."

"Tell us about the reconstruction at the Rossendale cottage."

"Well, as near as I could eventually learn, Richard Snape was talking to all the older people in the village about Mrs. Prince… Constantina Rossendale… and was trying to recreate the cottage not so much the way it was when she was living there, as the way she would have wanted it if she could have done the work herself."

"Let me remind the Council," interjected Robards, "that we are talking about permanent reconstruction and not temporary transfiguration. My department has ascertained that Constantina Rossendale did not have the financial means to remodel her cottage on a permanent basis. But," he turned again to Harry, "did Richard Snape have those means?"

"Of course," Harry answered. "He had the reward collected from the estate of Professor Snape."

"How was the house built? The materials and the labor?"

Harry thought for a moment. "He bought the materials through a local businessman, and his neighbors provided the labor to assemble the cottage." This answer was tricky, but Harry thought he'd pulled it off.

"Tell us what a septic system is."

"It's a muggle way to process and purify waste water from sinks, tubs… toilets… It uses gravity and natural bacteria to clean and distribute the waste water from a house."

"Is there anything in this process that would be a disruption of nature?"

"I don't know of anything."

"Describe solar panels."

Harry smiled. "They collect energy from the sun and use it to power muggle appliances."

"Does this depend on any muggle technology outside the house itself?"

"No, it doesn't."

"So," Robards pointed out to the Council, "Richard Snape's 'improvements' to Mrs. Prince's cottage would have been totally natural, and would not have disrupted any primitive magic in the least. It would seem he was the perfect tenant to preserve the magical nature of the place."

Harry was sent back to his seat and Robards continued. "I have also made certain investigations into the unusual nature of Weetsmoor, as has my esteemed colleague from Magical Creatures, Mr. Hooper. I would appreciate it if you would join me, Paul, and perhaps we could make quicker work of this. I don't wish to keep the council any longer than is necessary." This comment brought an emphatic nod from Shacklebolt.

Hooper rose and strode to the center of the chamber, managing to look both professional and boyish at the same time, a talent many barristers and defense attorneys would give their eyeteeth to share. "My first Ministry briefing on Weetsmoor came from Mr. Potter, who contacted me about the horses."

"Do these horses include the one Professor Snape's nephew is reported to have healed?" asked Tabitha Washburn.

"Indeed they do. It is a small stable, and the only horses in Weetsmoor."

"Are they magical horses?"

"No, ma'am." This was said in a respectful tone that nevertheless implied that Ms. Washburn was too young to be called 'Ma'am.' Harry, listening, was keenly aware that he would never be able to imitate it.

"Then why would your department become involved?"

"Porlocks. The horses had been attacked by vandals in the night, and Potter was suggesting porlocks as a rem…"

Pandemonium – small-scale but pandemonium none the less – again broke out, with wizards and witches exchanging gasps and comments of 'highly inappropriate,' 'clearly breaking the law,' and 'giving magical creatures to muggles? the nerve…'

"Stop!" cried Leach. "I have a whole list of questions to ask! You all have to be called to account for your actions!"

Amidst the hubbub, as his heart sank with the fear that the case was lost, Harry saw Robards and Hooper exchange a glance. Neither appeared worried. Harry took a deep breath; maybe this was planned.

"Mr. Leach!" Shacklebolt's voice boomed out. "You say you have questions formulated. Please ask them."

"Right!" Leach leapt into the fray. "First, why was the Ministry paying all this attention to a muggle? Richard Snape may be the nephew of Professor Snape, but as near as I can tell from my notes, he was not related to Constantina Rossendale, nor was he connected to the magical world in any…"

"No!" interjected Mehitable Washburn. "There was magic on that side. Professor Snape… let me see… yes! Professor Snape got his first magical instruction from his Snape great-grandfather, and his Snape grandmother was the one who knew all about the family history on both sides. You did say that, didn't you?"

The ghost, who had been floating about six inches off the floor, settled into place. "That is true. I did not, however, say that they were wizards. Nor were they from Weetsmoor. My father was, in fact, born in Barrowford. People in the area, however, all knew each other. The local people of the surrounding towns and villages… Barrowford and Barnoldswick, Foulridge, Earby, and Colne… They've known of Weetsmoor for generations. They don't have trouble finding it. Not everyone believed my grandmother was a witch, but many knew of the rumors. My great-grandfather was fascinated by the world of magic, and he wanted a witch in the family. He was the one who arranged the marriage between my father and my mother. My grandmother, who was not a Snape, knew the family history because that was what she did. She knew how everybody was related to everybody else. That my mother's family was magical was just part of it."

"Fine," snapped Leach. "That still doesn't explain the intense Ministerial interest in a non-magical nephew."

Harry was on his feet, headed to the center of the chamber. "That wasn't the Ministry," he said as loudly as he could without shouting. "That was me. I was interested in Richard Snape."

"Why?" asked Leach, somewhat taken aback at this turn of events.

"Yes," seconded the ghost. "By all means tell us why."

Harry sighed. "Because I wanted to do something right for once. For six years I lived and studied in the same school with a man who'd been my mother's best friend. He was working for the same thing I was working for – to get rid of Voldemort. He protected me, and tried to teach me – even when I was trying to kill him, he was trying to teach me – and I never recognized it until after he was dead and it was too late. If he'd had a son, or a sister, or anyone I could have gone to and talked to, I would have, but there was no one. And then, for a few short weeks, he was back, and I had the chance to learn all the things I needed to learn and make amends. Then he was gone again, and the only thing left was this 'nephew.' I just wanted to make sure he was all right. I know I was heavy-handed about it…"

"That's all right, Harry," said Robards gently as several of the witches on the council dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs, "your heart was in the right place."

"Now," continued Tabitha Washburn as if there had been no intervening debate, "about the porlocks…"

"They're an endangered species," said Hooper, with a bland expression that said that that explained everything.

"You are going to have to expand on that comment, you know," said Prendergast.

Hooper tilted his head in acknowledgement of the justice of the request. "Porlocks are magical creatures that for centuries have been living in a rural environment of small farms, private estates, and low technology. They, like many other creatures, have had difficulty adapting to the changes of the twentieth century. In fact, their difficulties have been greater since they, unlike most other magical creatures, live almost entirely in an environment dominated and controlled by muggles.

"Your average porlock thrives best in a modest stable with a handful of horses. This is where the porlock develops the best rapport with the animals and is able to guard them adequately. With the mechanization of agriculture and animal husbandry, we have seen a gradual decline in farm horses and an increase in large breeding businesses. Where once the porlock dealt with a family and possibly a few servants or hired workers, today the poor beast must confront a constant parade of outsiders – vets, farriers, trainers – and they are ill-suited to make the switch. We have observed a rise in what I can only describe as apparent clinical depression in our established porlocks, with a concurrent decline in the birth rate. The population of porlocks is going down rapidly.

"Added to this is a loss of pasturage. We in the wizarding world haven't noticed it too much, but for the past few years, British entrepreneurs have been experimenting with new and/or different types of meat production. Fields once devoted to pasturing cattle and horses have gone over to free-range pigs, herds of venison on the hoof, and even ostriches."

"Who would eat an ostrich?" demanded Mehitable Washburn.

Hooper smiled. "I understand the flesh has the texture of chicken or turkey, and the appearance and taste of beef. It is offered in quite a few restaurants."

Leach chimed in. "How does this affect Mr. Potter and Weetsmoor?"

"As was mentioned earlier, the horses in Weetsmoor's one stable were attacked by vandals. They nearly killed a foal. By this time, Mr. Potter had become aware of the magical nature of the place and hoped to find a safeguard for the horses that would not disturb that magical nature. My Department, at the same time, was trying to find a way to revitalize and restore the porlock population. I knew of one, tagged and observed for some months, that had recently lost its stable. We relocated it with, I must confess, an astonishing level of success. Its progress has been constantly monitored, and its experience may be vital in reversing the decline of the species as a whole."

There was silence for a moment as the council digested all this information, then Leach spoke up again. "If, as is claimed, Weetsmoor is secret and unplottable, how did the vandals get into the village to attack the horses?"

"I would assume," said Snape's ghost in an icy, spectral tone, deep and penetrating, "that they were local people. Not necessarily from Weetsmoor, but from one of the surrounding towns. They probably knew of the village from childhood. It is not just large cities, you realize, where depravity breeds. Was not the Dark Lord – Voldemort – from a Yorkshire village?"

Madam Scrimgeour redirected the questioning. "What else, Gawain, do you have for us? What other phenomena have been observed?"

At this prompting, Robards launched into a descriptive summary of long-lived gardens and self-seeding apple orchards, of ordinary tawny owls that passed a dedication to message delivery from generation to generation without human prompting, and a breed of border collies that responded to spells tailored specifically to familiars. He then spoke of what was new – infestations of bundimuns and bowtruckles, and the appearance of a whole nest of jobberknolls.

"Do you have," Madam Scrimgeour asked, "an event that might have stimulated this change?"

"Not for the garden or the apple orchard, nor for the owls and collies," Robards replied. "They come from a magic always there. But for the more recent arrivals, yes. They all came after Richard Snape began to reside in and restore the burned-out Rossendale cottage."

"It's a place-centered spell!" cried Prendergast. "The cottage is the epicenter."

"That," Robards said calmly, "is what we are investigating. That is one of the reasons we do not wish the magical/non-magical balance of the place disturbed. It is a phenomenon unique in wizarding Britain – an ancient village with wizarding/muggle interaction from before the time of the Act of Secrecy that not only remains unaffected by outside changes, but also holds within it the force of a spell that we can no longer perform. To pass up the opportunity of studying this place would be a crime. There is another factor."

The whispered babbled that had started when it seemed that Robards was winding up his case ceased. "What factor?" Shacklebolt asked.

"We have indications that a native of the village, Constable Latimer, although not himself a wizard in any sense, is nonetheless able to use a wand to perform very minor…" He was drowned out by the sudden upsurge of cries from the council.

"That's unheard of!" "How can a muggle…?" "There must be an error…"

Robards waited patiently until the uproar died down. "That is what we have to investigate. Richard Snape, who lives in the Rossendale cottage, eats food grown there, and drinks the water, has shown signs of magical ability as well. As have two young boys, also native to the place. We need to preserve the integrity of Weetsmoor in order to study this in greater depth."

He then knocked the final nail into place. "The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement understand that the Council may both approve the designation of Weetsmoor as a Reasonable Sanctuary, and rescind that designation at its pleasure should negative information surface as a result of our investigations."

How could anyone then vote against the designation when those in favor could point out that if it didn't work, they could take it back? There was only one further question.

"Gawain," crooned Madam Scrimgeour. "You haven't answered one of my questions yet. How was Severus Snape born into a family that could breed only girls?"

"My apologies, Madam, and thank you for reminding me. That has to do with laws passed in Britain after World War I. Among them were laws involving education that provided for the establishment of state schools all over Britain. Universal education was a new thing for muggles, and in Weetsmoor, every child started school regardless of background. In Weetsmoor, young Constantina Rossendale began her schooling at the same time as her contemporary Cora Cranmer, now Mrs. Wainwright.

"It was a totally new situation, that every young person in town had to attend school, and no one thought to restrict the attendance of the young Rossendale witch. Through this contact, Constantina was infected by middle class morality. When it came her time to leave the village and provide the next generation of witches, she did something unprecedented. She got married – to one Richard Prince. Thus, for the first time in more than seven hundred years, a wizard was introduced into the Rossendale family, and Constantina ceased to be a Rossendale.

"Her daughter was a witch but, as a Prince, she was a witch born outside the ancient spell. When it came her time to mate and breed, she was no longer bound by the spell to bear a daughter. Instead, she bore a son, Severus Snape. That ancient spell had been broken. It was broken on the day that Constantina Rossendale married Richard Prince. The other spell, the one that involved the village rather than the family, has not been broken. It is this second spell that we wish to study.

"Now, before I conclude, we still have our witnesses in a holding room. Is there any member of the council who wishes to question these witnesses further? Or who would like us to call new witnesses? Both of our departments would be pleased to accommodate any requests."

The ensuing debate lasted fifteen minutes, the upshot of which was that the Wizengamot had more than enough information to vote. One small snag was caused by the ghost, who wanted to stay and watch the vote. Since there was no way to force him to do anything he did not want to do, it took all of Robards's powers of persuasion to convince him that it was better to leave the council alone. That accomplished, however, the Wizengamot was allowed to conduct its poll in private.

"Do you think we'll win?" Harry demanded of Robards as he paced the chamber where they waited. Both Robards and Hooper were, by comparison, models of calm and confidence.

"What makes you think there are winners and losers?" Robards asked. "If the Sanctuary is designated, then everybody wins. Most of the members of the Wizengamot know that. They are not our adversaries."

"But that one wizard, Leach…"

"Oh, he opposes everything. They all know that and take it into consideration. Don't let him worry you."

"It would have helped if I'd known that," Harry huffed.

"Why? As it was, you behaved perfectly naturally, which was most beneficial. If you'd known about Leach and his reputation, you might have behaved differently and ruined everything."

"I wouldn't have!"

Robards smiled. "Harry, you're eighteen, and in many ways you're still a boy. You haven't steadied to the point where we know how you'll behave. It's best not to ask you for subterfuge, but to let you act from the heart. The less we coached you, the truer your voice was. Why mess with that?"

Grudgingly, Harry acquiesced. Luckily it was only a few minutes after that that they were called back into the chamber to be told that an Act establishing the village of Weetsmoor as a Reasonable Sanctuary had been passed. Harry want to shout about it. Robards simply thanked the council and shook a few hands.

The next to tell were Russ and Hugh. "That's it?" Hugh laughed. "I don't have to make a light at the end of a wand for them?"

"They're reasonable people," Robards reminded him. "They know which way is the right one."

"Sometimes," said Russ quietly. "Sometimes."

There was nothing more to do at that moment but to return to Weetsmoor and the cottage on the road running northwest out of the village, where Mrs. Hanson had tea, hot chocolate, apple pie, and shortbread waiting for them.

"I could get used to this," Robards said, on his second piece of shortbread.

"That," replied Russ, "sounds like you're planning on being a regular visitor."

Robards nodded. "I could get used to this," he repeated.

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Here ends the fourth story. Further stories will be in _Elementary, My Dear Potter: Part II_ if and when the author finishes them.


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